Writings on the Sword
by LAXgirl
Summary: Legolas is poisoned by a cursed dagger given to him as a gift from Gimli. War between Elves and Dwarves may destroy Middle-earth if he dies. But the one who's dark magic is slowly killing the prince is dead-set on letting no one save him. COMPLETE!
1. A Deadly Gift

Greetings and Salutations! This is my first Lord of the Rings fic and I'm hope you like it. I have no knowledge of what comes after the "Two Towers" so my fic may be based somewhat on a different ending then how the trilogy actually ends. But, nevertheless, here it is. If I have any major major mistakes point them out to me! Go on I don't mind! So enjoy!

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all affiliated characters are not mine. 

**************

After many centuries, the walls of black that stood like unwavering sentinels of desolation seemed to become at times unbearable. As though insanity was a mere heartbeat away if no light would at that moment pierced through the gloom. The only steadfast in that ocean of despair was the undying hate and boiling rage that still burned through blood and body towards the ones that had created this living hell of black. Revenge was what kept the brink of insanity away. 

Through the inky darkness came a single, echoing voice, "Not much longer…It has been many ages, but my revenge is finally at hand. Revenge against all Elves and Dwarves…and then all of humanity."

An evil cackle rang out through the gloom at this, where it then faded into a sing-songy tinkle of mirthful laughter that sang out loudly though the blackness, "Enjoy your festivities, Elves and Dwarves! For I have chosen my pawns for this game that exact my revenge against those that have imprisoned me here in this dark hell! Enjoy your merriment whilst you can, ignorant players in my grand scheme!" 

Fading back into the darkness, the laughter slowly subsided and returned back to careful waiting and brooding of evil plots and revenge where only the stinging silence of loneliness filled in the air.

********* 

A cool, damp breeze wafted though the many passages and paths of Rivendell. Nestled between the feet of the Misty Mountains, the city created a peaceful haven for weary travelers and elf-friends. Spring was upon the grand elfish city. The green shade of the trees cast a gentle hue of rebirth and renewal. And it was a perfect setting for the gathering that was to take place there. 

Over the distant rush of the waterfall and river that ran through Rivendell, the low babble of voices could be heard in the courtyard of Lord Elrond's palace. Inside the walls of the elf-king's home, a great reunion was taking place. 

It had been two years since the War of the Ring and the fall of Sauron with the destruction of the One. Peace had returned to Middle-Earth. The heroes and champions of the epic tale had reunited to recount their journeys and adventures with one another in the place where the story of it all had first begun. 

In the Grand Hall of Elrond, voices rang out through the brisk spring air of the river valley. The hall was several hundred paces long, made of the finest crafted marble and stone. The high ceiling overhead was braced with carved wooden beams decorated with elfish designs and patterns. Large windows lined with gauzy white fabric stood open along the sides of the hall to allow the sweet spring breeze to blow inside. Just on the other side of the windows lining the right side of the hall were large balconies overlooking the waterfall that fell along the high slopes of the Misty Mountains. Long tables filled the hall but arranged in such a way to allow for a wide open space set aside for story telling and music at the foot of an elaborate dais at the end of the hall.

"Greetings, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I was wondering when you were going to arrive," the great host called to the black haired Ranger as he noticed his arrival on the other side of the crowded dining hall. Smiling an acknowledgment, Aragorn hastened over to his foster-father and bowed low. 

Standing straight again after his bow, Aragorn swept a stray strand of hair from his eyes and replied in the grey-elven tongue, "_You humble me with your hospitality, Lord. It has been much time since I have had the pleasure of sharing your presence." _

"Your formalities are appreciated, but it hardly seems accurate to say it has been a long time since you've been in my house. I believe the last time you returned to Rivendell from one of your Ranger escapades to visit the Lady Arwen was less than a week ago," Elrond smiled, forgoing an elfish reply. Although at times, the elf king rethought the situation of his daughter's love to a mortal man, he could not deny he could not have hoped for a better possible son-in-law -- elf or man. 

"So it has!" the wandering Ranger laughed merrily with a broad smile, "It is only every time I leave Rivendell and return, it seems like ages since I have last been here. Before long, I may not be able to leave your house at all!"

"Let us hope such a thing does not come to pass!" Elrond returned with another jestful retort. Looking out over the assembled guests, he paused thoughtfully before he changed their talk, "It gives me much joy to see so many of the original Fellowship return here victorious and in a time of peace."

"Those were dark times," Aragorn agreed with a passing moment of dark memories, "But it does gladden my heart to reunite with old friends. I see the four Hobbits have joined us. I was almost certain I would never see the young Frodo anywhere outside the boundaries of the Shire again after the peril he faced only several years ago."

"Yes, but the small one shares his uncle's blood," Elrond said as he began to lead Aragorn towards a set of lavishly decorated chairs behind the head table at the end of the hall on the raised dais. Seating himself down in the center most chair of velvet, the elf-king motioned for Aragorn to take the seat beside him. Accepting this honor, the Ranger sat and listened as Elrond continued, "Only after two years of living quietly in his hole in the Shire, recovering from his adventures, Frodo returned here to Rivendell to visit his uncle Bilbo. It seems his misadventure has awaken in him a restless spirit." 

Glancing out towards the Hobbit in question, both took a moment to analyze the five Hobbits gathered admits a group of elves from Elrond's house who were listening intently to one of Bilbo's many stories. Encircled by the elves, Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry laughed heartily as Bilbo came to one of the more comical parts of his tale. 

On the outskirts of the group, the great wizard Gandalf stood, listening to his old friend's story with a small smile of nostalgia. In those stories, the sorcerer had been called Gandalf the Grey. But now he wore robes of pure white, and his beard and hair reflected this change in color to suit his new title and position. With the defeat of Sarumon, Gandalf had become the head of the wizard council. But for the present, he held no title. Amidst friends and old companions, he was merely Gandalf. 

__

As if noticing something, Aragorn broke the moment and asked, "Where is Gimli? I see dwarves among those gathered here, but where is our battle axe wielding friend?"

"Talking and catching up on old friendships with Legolas on the other side of the hall," Elrond pointed out with a nod of his head in the indicated direction. Following his direction, Aragorn distinguished the short but solid form of the dwarf, Gimli, seated beside the lighthearted elf, Legolas, at one of the many tables set along the far side of the long hall. 

Even from a distance of thirty feet or more, the Ranger could see smiles written across the pair's faces as they talked and laughed, although the dwarf's smile was harder to see from behind his thick reddish beard and the large mug of mead that seemed to constantly be at his mouth. But despite this, his guttural laugh rang out loud and strong over the background chatter that filled Lord Elrond's hall.

"Such an unlikely friendship," Aragorn murmured more to himself then anyone else as he watched the two from a distance.

"It's true that Dwarves and Elves have rarely made lasting friendships and alliances in the past. The last several centuries have been filled with suspicion and mistrust between the two races. But I have hope. It is becoming increasingly apparent that to survive, all races of Middle-Earth must live in harmony, and I can see right here in these two there is hope in that," Elrond commented thoughtfully. 

"Who is the elf beside Legolas?" Aragorn then inquired as his dark eyebrows knotted together in the center of his head curiously.

Glancing over to the pair, Elrond saw the elf Aragorn asked about. The elf's hair was long and blond like Legolas' but his face was sterner and sharper in appearance. Under dark eyebrows, the elf's eyes were shrewd and gray, seeing and cataloging everything in but a quick glance. His tunic was a dark blue with black leggings and light boots. Around his waist was fastened a curved blade made in the craft of elven blacksmiths. He sat close beside Legolas along with a contingent of other fair skinned Mirkwood elves. Even from across the room, Aragorn could detect a certain aura of wariness radiating from the mysterious elf. 

"He is Toreingal, son of Leliem, of Mirkwood," Elrond answered after a moment of contemplation, "He is of relation to Legolas- a cousin through blood by Lady Aelin, Legolas' mother." 

But before the elf-king could add anything else on the matter, his thoughts were broken by a musical voice that suddenly caught his ears, "Father, are you boring Aragorn again with your meandering thoughts?" 

Glancing to his side, Elrond saw his daughter, Arwen, mounting the dais and coming towards them, her long iridescent green and silver gown flowing gracefully around her feet. "I will have you know," he said in mock seriousness, "that Aragorn is one of the few that can fully appreciate my 'meandering thoughts,' as you put it." 

"I'm sure…" she simpered, giving her father a small peck of a kiss on his cheek before taking a seat beside Aragorn, "Why haven't you started the feast yet, father? All those invited are present." 

"I was merely waiting for you," Elrond answered tenderly as he stood and gracefully swept a fold of his red and gold embroidered robe behind him so as to address his many guest that numbered several hundred in elves, dwarves, followers of Aragorn, and five Hobbits. A hush fell over the people as they turned to listen to their host. 

"I welcome all my guests to Rivendell," Elrond began in a loud booming voice, "It pleases me that so many friends gathered here. Besides renewing old friendships, I hope this gathering will result in the enduring peace of Middle-Earth between all its inhabitants. That being said, let the feast begin!" 

At the Lord's words, a line of elf servants began to file into the room carrying trays laden with food and pitchers filled with rich drinks. A roar of approval rang out from the amassed guests as they sought to find seats to begin eating. Several musicians took their places near the dais and began to play soft elfish music on flutes as the guests ate. 

"Such a spread!" exclaimed Gimli as a servant sat a large roast in the center of the table near where he sat. Setting his goblet of mead on the table for the first time since he had entered, the dwarf sliced a large hunk of steaming meat from the hock. 

"I would pace myself if I were you, Master Dwarf," Gimli's elfish companion warned lightheartedly from beside him, "Lord Elrond's feast will last long into the night and into tomorrow, and then another eight days if my guesses are correct!" Catching the sideways glance from the dwarf, Legolas noted with a smirk, "It would almost seem you have not eaten for several days by the way you hoard that meat." 

"The journey from the dwarf mines was very long and the rations taken with my company and I were mediocre at best," Gimli snorted in reply as he shoved a mouthful of red meat into his mouth. Mumbling around the food in his mouth as he simultaneously talked and chewed, he added, "Although this doesn't measure up to a true Dwarfish feast, Elrond's is something to behold."

"I would watch your tongue, dwarf, whist you are in the house of your host," snarled a cold voice from the other side of Legolas. Turning towards the origin of the voice, Gimli saw Legolas' elf companion, who had not spoken more then two words since arriving, leaning forward into the miner's field of vision from behind Legolas.

"What was that?" Gimli demanded gruffly, feeling a confrontation coming on by this mysterious fellow. 

"You disrespect the hospitality shown to you by comparing this feast to a dwarf's!" Legolas' companion snarled with apparent dislike for Gimli. Turning to Legolas, he scoffed, "How can you stand to even share a table with this dwarf, cousin? I think you have fallen into bad company. No self-respecting elf would ever be caught dead with a dwarf."

"I beg your pardon?!" roared Gimli in outrage as he leapt from his place to confront his aggressor. Standing to meet him, the other elf towered over the stout miner. Gimli was dismayed to find he barely even reached the elf's narrow waist in height. Momentarily caught off guard by his vertical handicap, the dwarf nonetheless puffed out his chest and shifted his weight onto his toes to better utilize what few centimeters he could gain in doing so. Those in the general vicinity of the sudden outburst turned to watch.

There was a tense moment as the two faced off. The elf's hand strayed to his side to gently grip the handle of his curved knife as Gimli reached to where his axe lay propped against the table. 

"Master Dwarf! Cousin Toreingal! Enough of this!" Legolas cried as he leapt between the two, trying to prevent a fight, "We are guests in this house and will not take to fighting while here!" He could see the other elves in his and his cousin's company tensing, waiting for the moment to jump to their lords' aid if need be.

Considering Legolas' words, Toreingal narrowed his eyes at Gimli before saying in a dangerous tone, "You are right, cousin. I will not lower myself to a dwarf's level--both literally and figuratively." Gimli's wrinkled expression twisted into rage at this, but said nothing out of respect to the archer that stood before him and his wicked-tongued cousin. Catching the dwarf's stormy gaze, Toreingal added, "I will not show such disrespect as this dwarf has to this house by fighting here. But be warned, cousin, be careful of those you keep company with. I would hate to see one of our linage to be tainted by dwarves."

With a final disdainful snort of disapproval towards Gimli, Toreingal turned and stormed from the room, leaving Legolas and the dwarf staring at his retreating back. 

"Why I 'ought to…." Gimli muttered from beneath his furry beard with insulted eyes as Legolas' cousin disappeared into the passage beyond one of the Great Hall's many exits. 

"I am deeply sorry for my cousin's actions and words, Gimli," Legolas bowed low in apology, "Please forgive me."

"Why should I forgive you for what he said?" Gimli questioned more calmly in tone as they both retook their seats and those around them that had been disturbed by the brief outburst returned to their merriment. Half the hall seemed to have not even noticed the minor brawl at all, such was the size of Elrond's Great Hall. 

"He is related to me, thus making his words representative of me," the young looking elf replied shamefully with downcast eyes, "Can you ever find it possible to forgive those ill-spoken words?"

"That cousin of yours has a sharp tongue, but I don't blame you for anything he said. It just strikes me as hard to believe he could actually be related to you," the miner answered.

"It seems great hatred still exists between Elves and Dwarfs," Legolas murmured dispiritingly to himself, "Will nothing change?"

"Well, elf, I can't say I was very taken with you the first time I meet you at Elrond's Council all those years ago. And though you've proven yourself more trouble than you're worth, you've come to grow on me," Gimli said, trying to lift his Legolas' spirits.

"As have you, dwarf, only more like fungus on the side of a tree," the elf quipped with surprising glibness considering his melancholic mood only a moment before. 

Taken aback at first, Gimli sat open mouthed, groping for a suitable comeback. Finding himself coming up empty-handed, the dwarf was reduced to having to admit defeat to their verbal sparring. "Well, I've always said no sane dwarf would associate with an elf… And though I loathe to admit it, I've never been classified as the most mentally stable!" Gimli laughed heartily, giving Legolas a friendly slap on the back. 

"Why does that not surprise me…" the elf muttered, feeling his heart lighten as the two continued on in their well-practiced banter of half-hearted insults.

"Oh, before I forget…" Gimli suddenly startled as if he just remembered something very important, "-I've brought you a gift from my father's kingdom." Reaching down to the small bundle at his feet, Gimli pulled free from his pack a wrapped package. Pushing his plates away from him to clear a space, the dwarf laid the bundle on the table before him and slowly unwrapped it while saying, "This is an ancient dagger forged in the Mountain of Bazadur centuries ago. It has been in my family for ages. But I've no use for it, Legolas. I prefer an axe to any other weapon made in Middle-Earth. I should like to offer it to you in good faith and friendship."

Lifting the final fold of brown cloth from it, Gimli reverently pulled a sheathed dagger from the mass. It was light silver but with a bluish hue to its metal. Dwarfish runes ornamented the scabbard's sides and the dagger's handle. It was a beautiful piece of weaponry with deep blue gems that had been dug from the sides of mountains mounted along its sheath. 

Offering it to Legolas, Gimli urged with a smile, "Go on. Take it."

"Oh, I am most humbled," Legolas stuttered gratefully as he gingerly took the knife from the dwarf's hands, "I am hardly worthy of such a gift."

"Don't be modest," Gimli smiled at the look of awe on the young elf's face as he studied the etches along the scabbard carefully, "This is a gift worthy of such an elf who tolerated me for as long as you did on that quest so many years ago." 

"It hardly seems so long to me," Legolas chuckled under his breath, "The War seems like only last week in my reference of time." 

Stifling a smile at the elf's immortality, he urged anxiously, "Go on now! Don't just sit there admiring the pretty designs! Pull it out and see the blade!"

Doing as he was directed, Legolas tugged the blade from its sheath with hardly any effort, as though the dagger had been well oiled and cared for over the years-- hardly showing the ages Gimli testified it had seen since its forging . Shining in the bright afternoon spring sunlight streaming into the hall from outside, the slightly curved blade shined like the moon; a pale bluish silver. 

"It's beautiful," Legolas commented quietly as he laid the blade across his other hand to examine the edge. Pulling it straight up before his face, the elf fell into a trance as he gazed at the polished blade. It was so perfectly forged and sharpened. 

Not thinking, Legolas gently slid his left pointer finger against the edge as if touch would better let him appreciate its artistry. But as his finger neared the tip of the dagger, the elf gave a tiny yelp of surprise and pain. Retching his finger back, he saw a small horizontal line of red beginning to form across the pad of his fingertip. Blood dotted along the thin and shallow cut. 

"It seems I am not ready for such a blade," Legolas joked, sucking the blood from his finger and thinking no more of the injury as he slid the dagger back into its scabbard, "I need more practice with it, it appears. Many thanks nonetheless, Master Dwarf. I will treasure this gift forever."

"I'm sure you will. You have enough time to actually fulfill that promise," Gimli answered merrily as he waved down a passing servant and sent orders for more ale. Quickly downing his foaming mug, the incident between Toreingal and Gimli soon became forgotten as the feast continued on for many hours and into the night.

*********

The feast had been going on for several hours now. The sun had already set and the stars were beginning to shine out brightly against the dark firmament. The pale spring moon was beginning to raise off on the horizon, casting a ghostly glow on Rivendell and the surrounding mountainsides. Candles had been lit in Elrond's Great Hall, giving the place a warm friendly glow. The musicians had long began to exhaust their repertoire of elven lore and songs, but the slack had been taken up by various guests who added had their own to the festivities. 

Aragorn had already recited the legend of Turin and Beleg and their journeys together in the Northern Marches. Bilbo had also given a retelling of his encounter with a group of mountain trolls at the request of one of Elrond's household. And Frodo had left his own mark on the night with a merry drinking song from the Shire that seemed to have gone over quite well with some of the dwarves from Gimli's company. Others had also taken their turn at being momentary entertainment for the party. 

After one of the dwarves of Gimli's clan retold some ancient story of mines and mountains, Elrond called out loudly over the polite applause of the other guests, "Will we not hear some Elven tales? Legolas! Would you not entertain us with some song of old? Perhaps some lore from Mirkwood!" 

Off to the side where Gimli and Legolas sat in the darker shadows of the hall, the elf sat straighter in his chair with apparent strain but called out blithely, "It would be my pleasure, Lord Elrond! How does the tale of Nelomnial fancy you?" 

"It would please me well, Legolas," the regal king of Rivendell answered. Some of the Mirkwood elves that had accompanied Legolas to Rivendell smiled to each other. The tale of Nelomnial was a local favorite and was always readily recited and listened to at any elven gathering. 

Despite the cries of approval from the remaining elven guests that had not yet gone off to bed or had retreated for a few moments to go in search of quiet somewhere away from the feast, Legolas felt no joy in his heart at the thought of reciting the long and wordy tale of Nelomnial. He didn't know why he had offered to recite the longest story he knew, but it had been the first thing that came to mind. His head was spinning too much for him get his mind to think of anything else, and pride would not let him back down from Elrond's request. His body felt unnaturally heavy and weighted down to the floor. His head on the other hand felt light, and his eyes refused to fully focus on anything, leaving the world slightly blurred and fuzzy. A dull ache throbbed in his left hand but he thought nothing much of it. 

Swallowing the discomfort on which he blamed too much ale pushed onto him by Gimli, the young elf hardened himself to the task at hand. Pulling himself to his feet, Legolas tried to push the edges of darkness that circled his vision away as he slowly trudged to the center of the area set aside for the storytellers and musicians. 

As the elf took his place and looked out over the revelers, Aragorn and Arwen exchanged a worried glance as Legolas came more into the warm light of the many candles that filled the hall and saw how sickly and pale their friend's face was. A sheen of sweat glistened across his brow and his shoulders sagged as if he was too tired to stand straight. 

Taking a deep breath to steady his unsteady breathing, the Sindarian elf began in his native tongue the epic poem of Nelomnial: 

_Far from the east came a fair light_

_Fair and brave was the elf that rode before the sun_

_In the west lay a shadow of great darkness_

_Riding forth to met this foe,…_

All of a sudden, Legolas trailed off. Those gathered close to hear his recitation, waited anxiously, thinking he was merely using dramatic pause to heighten the suspense of his telling. But before anyone knew what was happening, the archer suddenly pitched forward and crashed to the floor. 

Cries rang out as a mass of people swarmed around the motionless form. Even Lord Elrond leapt from his place on the dais and rushed to Legolas' side. From some far corner of the hall, Legolas' cousin, Toreingal, hurried forward, having returned to the feast after his minor huff with Gimli hours before, but having kept a distance from his cousin and the dwarf during that time. Already there at Legolas' side, Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli, and Arwen gently rolled the young elf onto his back. Legolas' cheeks were sunken and unnaturally pale. His desperate breaths for air sounded loudly as his chest heaved up and down. A tense silence filled the hall as the other guests there stood to better see the sick elf. 

"What happened to him?" demanded Toreingal as he knelt beside his cousin's head and brushed several strands of sweaty blond hair that had loosened themselves from Legolas' braids away from his face, "He has a terrible fever and can barely breath!" Sweeping his questioning gray eyes across the faces of those gathered closely around Legolas, Toreingal's eyes fell onto the dwarf Gimli. "You!" he accused with a pointed finger, "My cousin was well when I left him with you! What did you do to him?!" 

"I did nothing! How dare you accuse me of any treachery!" the dwarf shouted from Legolas' side, anger brewing in his dark little eyes. 

"Both of you, calm yourselves!" Gandalf cut in, "We must figure this out later, but first we must tend to Legolas. He is gravely ill."

"Will he be alright?" Frodo questioned softly from the wizard's side, looking down worriedly at his sick elf-friend.

"The festivities for the night are ended," Elrond announced, not answering the Hobbit's question, "Legolas is to be taken to my chambers in the palace immediately." Clapping his hands loudly, a small team of servants rushed forwards and lifted the fevered elf up and hurried him out one of the hall's many grand exits and into the main body of Elrond's palace. Low murmurs sounded in waves through the other guests gathered in the hall at the mention of the feast's end. Nothing like that had ever happened before. Never had one of Lord Elrond's feast ever been prematurely ended. 

"Gandalf, come with me. We must tend to Legolas," ordered Elrond gravely. In both their eyes they shared the knowledge of something very ominous hanging in the air. Hastily retreating from the Great Hall in the way the servants bearing the stricken elf had gone, the wizard and elf-king disappeared from the sight of the others. 

Not invited, but not caring if they were or not, Toreingal, Gimli, Aragorn, Arwen and the Hobbits quickly followed the two into the bowels of Rivendell's palace. 

**********

"He is fading from us," Gandalf muttered gravely to himself as his removed his hand from across the elf prince's burning hot forehead. Laying on the soft down pillows of Elrond's own bed, Legolas' labored breathing was the only thing that broke the tense silence that filled the room. The elf's eyes lay half open, but saw nothing from under the delirium of the fever that burned his body. In the dim candle light that shined from a nearby stand, the elf's skin glowed a deathly pale shade. Those that had followed Lord Elrond and Gandalf from the Great Hall stood silently along the far side of the room, out of the way of the two healers. Toreingal, however, paced nervously at the foot of Legolas' bed, heedless of the possibility he was in the way. 

"I do not understand this," Elrond muttered under his breath, "I talked to Legolas myself earlier today and he was perfectly healthy. What could have stricken him so ill so fast? None of our medicine is reaching him through this fever." 

"I am wondering things much along those same lines, my friend," the aging wizard answered, "I am beginning to wonder if this is more than a simple illness…" A deep frown was pulled across his bearded face as he looked down onto the panting boy before him. The elf had been stripped of his tunic and belt to better examine him. An unspoken fear crept along the half-elf's and the wizard's spines as they saw Legolas' chest drawn up beneath his ribs with every desperate, irregular gasp for air. They would need to hurry to heal the prince or he would slip beyond their aid.

"What's this…?" Gandalf suddenly murmured as he stooped to examine Legolas' left hand that lay down flat against the coverlet of the bed he lay on. The warrior's first finger was swollen and bluish in appearance. Gently turning Legolas' hand over in his own to see better, the wizard saw what had once probably been a small and shallow cut, was now almost half and inch long. The edges of the cut were purple and pulled taught from swelling. The bluish hue of the skin around the wound spread down towards the heel of Legolas' hand.

Coming around to the same side of the bed as Gandalf, Elrond stooped to examine the cut himself. A grim frown spread down across his ageless face as he gently probed the inflicted finger. Moaning weakly, Legolas writhed under the elf-king's gentle touch. Relinquishing his examination, the ancient healer closed his eyes and he held an outstretched hand out over Legolas' infected hand, using his magical insight to look beyond the superficial wound and to the true problem. Finally after a moment, Elrond stood straight beside the bed, ill tidings written across his face. 

"What is it? Do you know?" Toreingal demanded from the foot of the bed urgently, worry creasing his face. 

"Unfortunately, I do. But I do not know how," answered Elrond, "There is poison flowing in your cousin's veins."

"Poison?" Legolas' kin repeated in shock.

"But as I've said, I do not know how it could possibly be the poison I think of. I sense what feels like Ghostslip. But the plant that this poison is made of has long been extinct," Elrond said as if in a trance, his voice very distant, "It kills slowly and very painfully. Before death, the victim is delirious and mutters utter nonsense until they pass away. There is no known remedy."

Silence stung the ears of the room's occupants as they digested Elrond's words. 

"How did this happen?" Frodo whispered, tears stinging the corners of his eyes at the thought of one of his friend's dying. 

"It seems the poison was transferred into Legolas through a small cut on his finger. But I do not know how this could have been achieved," Elrond sighed in defeat, perplexed by these facts. 

"Did you say a cut? On his finger?" Toreingal suddenly broke in and demanded. Turning on Gimli who stood not far away from him, Toreingal exploded, "Murderer! I should strike you dead right where you stand for what you've done!" Rage boiled in his pale gray eyes as he whipped his dagger from its sheath at his side.

Startled by this, the others gathered in the room jumped away from Legolas' enraged cousin. Gandalf and Elrond stood beside each other, watching as Toreingal gripped his knife tightly in his hand. Caught without his axe which he had left behind in the Great Hall in his hast to go to his sick elf-friend's side, Gimli watched with terror widened eyes as Toreingal stalked towards him. 

"Stop this!" Aragorn ordered, stepping between the two and drawing his sword on the elf warningly, "What are you talking about, Toreingal?" 

"This treacherous dwarf has just sentenced my cousin to death!" the elf roared, eyeing Gimli with hate filled eyes, "I saw him give my cousin, Legolas, a dagger earlier today. I saw him even from across the hall edging Legolas to draw the knife and examine it. My cousin followed his instructions but cut himself on its edge as he did so! He must have placed the poison on it before he arrived in Rivendell. This dwarf conspired to murder Legolas!"

"I did no such thing!" Gimli retorted defiantly, "I would never stoop to poisoning a blade in order to kill an enemy with such dishonorable treachery and deceit!"

Snorting at this, Toreingal snarled, "I would not put it past a dwarf to do such things." But before, the miner could return the insult, he was interrupted by a strong voice.

"These are grave crimes you a charge the dwarf Gimli with, Toreingal of Mirkwood," Elrond said sternly, breaking up another potential brawl between the two, "Before anyone is to be accused of murder, the blade in question must be examined."

"I will not wait for such diplomatic means of justice," Toreingal hissed with venom, "I will avenge my cousin." 

"You will take no such course of action until all it taken into account," Elrond commanded, staring down the much younger elf. 

Gritting his teeth in anger in knowledge he could not out rightly go against the king of the land he was in, Toreingal looked towards the only dwarf in the room and growled, "I am sending out a carrier pigeon to Legolas' father, my uncle, in Mirkwood at first light. If my cousin dies, open war with befall all dwarves. King Thranduil will not take lightly the poisoning of his youngest son. The elves will march in mass towards the mines of all mountain dwellers and seek justice for the king's son's death with the blood of ten thousand dwarves." 

Turning on his heels quickly, Toreingal stormed from the room to ready his message to King Thranduil that would be sent out at the first rays of dawn. 

"I did no such thing as that elf accuses me of," Gimli cried out in a tight voice, feeling himself being backed into a corner. 

"I believe you, Master Dwarf," Elrond soothed, "But I fear, King Thranduil may be swayed by his nephews words and turn to war."

"Do you have the means of curing Legolas?" Aragorn asked softly, looking down onto the sickened elf's pain screwed face as he returned his sword to its scabbard. 

Looking to the wooden floor, Lord Elrond shook his head sadly, "I cannot. There is no cure that I know of that can reverse the effects of the poison that flows through Legolas' veins. At best, I could only lengthen his life until he finally slips beyond my power." 

"So war is upon our heads," Gandalf muttered as he gazed down onto the pale face of Legolas, whose failing life would ultimately decide the coming of a war that could ravage all of Middle-Earth until there was nothing left. Elves would fight Dwarves and then Men would fall in the wake of the consuming battles between the two races until all was but a desolate wasteland…

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"Ha ha ha," sang the mirthful voice in the blanketing darkness of nothingness, "The elf has fallen and my revenge is at hand! With his death, I exact my revenge against those that imprisoned me in this tomb centuries ago. And better yet when the dwarf comes to me seeking salvation for the elf. Then I will be free once again! The second coming of the Dark Witch is close at hand!" 

Again the woman's voice trailed away into the inky darkness as the wall of blackness darkened to an ever more despairing shade of nothingness…

************* 

Did you like it? Hate it? Either way, your comments, concerns, and suggestions are always accepted. Tell me if you think this has any potential or not. So depending on feedback received, I guess I'll see you in the next chapter!

Signing out

-LAXgirl 


	2. The Hidden Cave of Eronel

Hi again! Finally banged out another chapter. Hope you like. I got a pretty good response for the first chapter. I want to apologize to the one reviewer that mentioned the what will forever hereafter be known as the 'Gimlet' incident! For whatever the reason, the night I posted it, my spell check was being temperamental and decided to change Gimli to Gimlet… Yeah, I don't see any similarity either, but that's technology for ya! Anyway, I think I got it all squared away so enjoy. 

Disclaimer: Legolas and all other characters are not mine… *sob*

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A gray, early morning light filtered through the far window of the darkened room. The sky outside lay overcast and gloomy, threatening a chilly spring shower. Inside the grand palace of Rivendell, a still quietness pervaded one of it's many guest chambers, as if any of its occupants dared not speak. Gathered close around the large bed that stood against the far wall of the room, Aragorn, Gandalf, Arwen, Gimli, and four little Hobbits huddled together at their stricken friend's side, hoping beyond all hope for a miracle. 

Legolas lay motionless, wrapped in layers of soft sheets with his long blond hair fanned out on the pillow beneath his head. His face was still a ghostly pale shade, but he now seemed able to breath easier. The medicines given to him by Elrond and Gandalf throughout the long and wearying night had seemed to have finally taken some effect. A slight fever still warmed his forehead but the elf seemed to be sleeping peacefully. He barely stirred as Arwen placed a cool, damp cloth across his brow. 

Sometime before the first dim glow of morning had warmed the horizon, the group had carried the poisoned elf to a guest room in the palace near Lord Elrond's should his knowledge of medicine and healing be needed again. Throughout the rest of the long and lonely night, they had stayed by Legolas' side faithfully, unable to tear themselves away from their fatally ill companion. 

During that time, the accursed dagger that had struck down the youthful elf had been brought to Lord Elrond. The timeless elf-king had pondered the blade thoughtfully with Gandalf for some time before leaving to study the dagger in his chambers alone. When he had left, the others there swore they sensed something ominous in the air by the way Elrond eyed the dagger; as if he sensed something evil brooding in the ornamented weapon and cringed at the touch of it. That had been hours ago and the day was now nearing the ninth hour of the morning, but still there had been no word from him. 

Near Legolas' head, Gimli sat hunched in his chair, staring blankly down at the polished floorboards, thousands of miles away lost in thought. It seemed to the rest of the group he had aged several decades since the night before, being completely undone by Legolas' poisoning. The dwarf said little and never strayed far from the elf's side. In his eyes shined the unmistakable torture of guilt and grief. 

"How long do you think he has?" Sam suddenly squeaked in a soft and timid voice from a chair near the foot of Legolas' bed beside Frodo, as if frightened to break the silent vigil but unable to keep the weighty question unspoken any longer. The others looked to the Hobbit slowly, emotionally exhausted expressions chiseled onto their weary faces. 

"It is hard to foresee," Gandalf answered grimly, tugging at the bottom of his long white beard thoughtfully, "Legolas is strong, but the poison is stronger. I can make no estimate on the length of his suffering."

"Is there nothing we can do for him?" Aragorn cried in frustration, standing straight from where he leaned against the window frame nearby, "If Legolas dies, the northern Elves will wage war on the Dwarfs. King Thranduil has many alliances with other Elf clans who would easily be swayed to march against the Dwarfs. And the Dwarves are no helpless race. They would go to meet the Elves in battle and fight with unimaginable brutality. Middle-earth is still recovering from the War only two years ago. It could not survive an open war between Elves and Dwarfs."

"I share your fears, Aragorn, but there is little you, I, or Lord Elrond can do," Gandalf replied as he hung his head against his chest in defeat, "There is no magic or medicine I know of that can cure him."

"This is all my fault," broke a low voice. Looking to its origin, the group saw Gimli raise his head for the first time in hours. Shaking his stout little head from side to side slowly, he murmured despairingly, "It's all my fault. What that elf, Toreingal, said before was true. I did urge Legolas to examine the blade. If I hadn't, none of this would have happened. If I had known there was anything foul on that blade, I would have cast it into the darkest pit of my father's mine. I should have never given Legolas that dagger. If I had only known…" Here the miner trailed off, choking back the grief and guilt that threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes as he looked down upon the pale face of the sedate elf laying beside him. 

"Gimli," Frodo hushed with a gentle hand on the dwarf's shoulder, "There was no way of you knowing there was poison on that knife. You have no fault in what happened."

"Frodo is right, you know," Gandalf assured. 

Gimli looked to the Men, Hobbits, and female elf that nodded to him in agreement, but found no such forgiveness for himself as they did him. He could already feel the weight of Legolas' death hanging over his head, along with the deaths of all other Dwarfs and Elves that would result from his ill-fated gift. Gimli felt as though he were in quicksand; slowly being swallowed alive with no way of escaping. And it was all his fault… Quiet descended on the guest chamber of Lord Elrond's palace as the dwarf hung his head and turned his sorrows in on himself again. 

Suddenly there came the soft click of a door being opened. Startled by this new sound, those in the room turned toward the only entrance of the sparsely decorated guest chamber. As the delicately carved door swung outwards into the hallway beyond, the face of Legolas' cousin, Toreingal, came into view as he stepped over the threshold without a sound from beneath his light boots on the floorboards; such being the grace and stealth of all the Eldar. Looking towards the bed, the elf's face did a momentary startle as he noticed the many faces staring back at him. 

Quickly recovering from his initial surprise, Toreingal said in a tight voice, barely masking his distrust towards the group, save for perhaps Arwen, "I was not expecting to find so many at my cousin's side."

"We were not about to abandon our friend in his hour of need," Aragorn replied, returning Toreingal's hostile tone. 

The elf's gray eyes narrowed to slits at the Ranger's words, staring daggers at the Man who dared imply any notion of him abandoning his dying cousin. But before he could return any barbed comment, Toreingal noticed a stout figure sitting in the gray shadows of the room close beside Legolas' bed. 

"What is _he _doing there at my cousin's side!?" the elf exploded, straying his hand to his side where his dagger was sheathed, "I should slit that dwarf's throat for his treachery and betrayal of Legolas' trust! It is because of him I must watch my cousin slowly slip away to the Halls of Mandos!"

"Toreingal," Gandalf spoke calmly, but with force behind his words, "Gimli had no hand in the poison that tainted that dagger. He is innocent of all your accusations. Lord Elrond is investigating this matter as we speak to find the truth. We will find who did this." 

The fair elf snorted in disgust at this and scoffed, "So this dwarf has the great Gandalf the White under his pudgy little finger too. I will tell you the truth of this matter, old man: he plotted to kill Legolas and has thrown a blanket over everyone's eyes but mine! I see him plainly for the deceitful little murderer he is." 

Gimli said and did nothing at this. The dwarf merely sat like a cold stone statue in his chair staring at the floor with a distant look in his dark eyes as the elf battered his ears with hate filled accusations. And in his heart, Gimli began to wonder the truth of Toreingal's words… 

"Stop this!" Aragorn ordered forcefully, coming to place himself in front of Gimli as if to shield the dwarf from anymore of Toreingal's abuse, "Cannot you see past your own nose?" he demanded from the angered elf. Fire blazed in Toreingal's pale gray eyes as Aragorn continued undaunted, "You accuse Gimli, of poisoning the blade that struck down Legolas, but have you ever considered the point Lord Elrond made last night that this poison can no longer be made? How could Gimli have poisoned Legolas if there was no way of him obtaining the plant needed to brew it?" 

Twisting his face up in obstinance, Toreingal opened his mouth to answer the Ranger, but was cut off suddenly by another whose strong voice commanded all attention in the room. "From what I have found, simple poison would be a blessing." 

Standing there in the doorway of the room, Lord Elrond stood clutching the bluish silver dagger whose poisoned blade had numbered Legolas' days. Slowly stepping across the threshold with his pale green and silver robes gently whistling above the wooden floor, the elf-king moved silently into the room with his dark eyes turned towards the ground. Elrond's ageless face now seemed taught and weary, as if he bore a great burden on his shoulders. 

"What do you mean?" Aragorn asked worriedly from the grim look in his foster-father's dark brown eyes. 

"Father, what is it?" Arwen joined in softly, concern tainting her voice. 

The elegant king stood for a moment staring down at Legolas' still form on the nearby bed as he slowly brought the moonlight colored dagger up to hold before him. Breathing in a tight breath of air, Elrond said grimly, "It was not as I thought. There is no poison upon this knife's edge." 

Perplexed glances were exchanged at this revelation from those gathered at Legolas' side. "How can that be?" the wizard wondered out loud as he shifted his long white staff from one hand to the other nervously. 

Elrond replied in a grave tone, "Instead of Ghostslip, which I had first thought it was, the whole blade rather is tainted with evil. Anyone who is cut or pierced by this knife is doomed to die." 

Tense silence hung in the room as thick as fog as the half-elf continued in a low voice, "When I first touched it, even through its scabbard, I could feel something darker then mere poison within. From the ancient dwarfish runes etched into its blade, I have deciphered the name of it's original master: the dwarf Rungal."

"That was one of my ancestors," Gimli broke in, finally choosing his moment to speak "He forged the dagger himself and that was how it came into my family."

"You are correct, Master Dwarf," Lord Elrond confirmed with a nod of his head in Gimli's direction and riddled enigmatically, "But I doubt you know the reason of its forging." Gimli said nothing as the elf explained, "In my research of the name Rungal, I have uncovered a forgotten chapter in our world's history which should never have been forgotten. Three thousand years ago in the Second Age, Middle-earth was plagued by an evil sorceress named Eronel-"

"Wait!" Toreingal broke in suddenly with great surprise, "That is an elven name!" 

"It is," Elrond affirmed again with a saddened tone, "Eronel was of the our race; one of the Eldar, a Sindar like you, Toreingal, and Legolas. But she was tempted and fell into dark magic. She was corrupted by power and greed and became tainted by evil. She killed anyone who stood against her and covered much of the northern lands in darkness, fire, and fear."

"How terrible…" Frodo muttered quietly, remembering the same terror he had seen and suffered only several years before during his long and weary quest to destroy the ring of power. 

"It was, Frodo," Elrond commented to the small Hobbit, "But Eronel was defeated by a contingent of Elves and Dwarves who had banded together to rid Middle-earth of her evil. After many long and bloody battles, the magic of the Elves and force of the Dwarves finally wounded and drove back Eronel into a dark cave hidden in the Misty Mountains where they sealed her inside for all eternity."

"But what does this dark witch Eronel have anything to do with this dagger?" Arwen questioned from Legolas' bedside. 

Elrond bowed his head, for he had come to the part that effected them most. Gathering his will, the he said, "Gimli's ancestor, Rungal, was one of the those who had fought against Eronel. He was the one who wounded the sorceress and forced her into the cave where she was sealed. But it seems Eronel's evil had gone deeper then what was first imagined. The evil and darkness that had consumed her soul had also spoiled her very body. When she was wounded on the edge of this blade, she in turn tainted the dwarf's sword with the dark poison that ran through her flesh. After Eronel's defeat, the Elves and Dwarves went their separate ways and the tainted dagger fell out of use and memory and became only a family heirloom until it came to pass into Gimli's hands…"

An uneasy quietness followed as each of those there fell into silence and thought. But then, a weak voice sounded, like fall leaves being carried away on the winds, "Then I am doomed to fall into darkness…"

Startled, the group looked to the large bed where the voice had been issued. There, laying with his deep blue eyes cracked open a bit, the elf Legolas stared up at his friends. Whether the elf had no intention or no strength to, he did not try to rise and sit. Converging on him like vultures on a dead animal, those crowded together in the room sprang to huddle around the large bed. 

"Legolas! Thank the Valar you're awake!" Aragorn cried as he hurried to his companion's side and took the elf's cold hand into his own. A mixture of relief and concern stormed across his weatherworn face. "We feared we would never hear your voice again. How do you feel?" 

"Tired," the warrior admitted groggily, trying to blink his bleary eyes into focus on the faces hovering over him. 

"I hate to say it, but you look terrible," Aragorn then took the opportunity to say as he pushed some of Legolas' sweat-matted hair away from clammy face and readjusted the wet cloth on the elf's forehead. 

The poisoned warrior let a small, weary smile grace his face at their little inside joke, but the expression was fleeting and quickly fell away to exhaustion. Obviously struggling to keep his already barely open eyelids from sliding completely shut, Legolas weakly turned his head to acknowledge his cousin as the other Mirkwood elf forcefully pushed his way through the four Hobbits that huddled together beside the bed. 

Bending over Legolas' body, Toreingal asked in surprising gentleness, "How long have you been awake? How many of Lord Elrond's words did you hear?"

Legolas said nothing for a moment before answering softly in despair, "Enough to know there is no hope for me…" 

Toreingal's face hardened at these words. "Fear not cousin. You will not go unavenged. I have sent word of your plight to you father, King Thranduil, in Mirkwood early this morning. I dare gamble that he is already gathering his armies to march out towards the Dwarf mines nestled in the Lonely Mountains to seek revenge. The Dwarves will suffer for their plot to kill you. I know that deceitful little miner purposely gave you that dagger knowing full well what evil it held."

Legolas looked at his kin for a moment, horror shining in his eyes as he struggled to find words. His stomach clenched into a knot at his cousin's words. A cold shiver of fear sliced down his spine as he tried to decide if he wasn't really in the grips of some terrible nightmare conjured up by the poison that flowed through his body. 

"You did what?" he finally rasped, looking at Toreingal with disbelief, "Gimli would do no such thing. The Dwarves have done nothing to have war declared against them." Looking to the dwarf who sat close beside his bed in silence, Legolas saw a sorrowful shadow fall over his friend's face, as if Gimli himself was not so sure of his own innocence.

Looking down at Legolas for a long moment, Toreingal finally assessed with a grim frown, "You are not well, cousin. You are still in the grips of a terrible fever. You do not understand these things in your delirium. I have already sent a carrier pigeon out in the direction of Mirkwood. Your betrayal will not go unavenged."

Before Legolas could form any words in his parched throat to defend his sanity, Lord Elrond broke into the conversation and said, "Before you plan for war, Toreingal, you should know there still may be salvation for Legolas. All hope is not lost."

All eyes in the room snapped towards the tall, dark elf who stood on the outer circle of those gathered around the poisoned archer. "Have you discovered a means of curing Legolas?" Gandalf questioned hopefully. 

"Perhaps," the elf-king muttered with hesitation in his voice, "The witch that tainted this blade is sealed in a mountain cave hidden from view by a small waterfall that flows over its entrance and then into a shallow pond. The Elves that sealed Eronel in the cave enchanted the water to imprison her inside. It is possible that the enchanted water that was used to drive Eronel's evil into the dark recesses of the cave may also be used to break the poison and drive her evil from Legolas' body."

Hope rose in the group as Elrond finished. War may yet be diverted. Legolas may still be saved. 

"Such a thing may work…" the white wizard mumbled to himself, pulling on his beard thoughtfully, slowly pacing along the foot of the bed. 

"Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go get some of this magic water!" Pippin exclaimed in his excitement, not considering any of the preparations that would need to be made before any such quest could be undertaken. 

"Thing's are not so simple, my little Hobbit," Lord Elrond chided, holding up a hand in front of his chest to motion for attention again from the group, "The way to the waterfall is long and treacherous. The witch, Eronel, still resides in the hidden cave and strives for release. She would bring utter ruin to Middle-Earth should she somehow escape. If we were to go in search of Eronel's cave, great care must be taken. We cannot risk her release." 

"But we can also not risk Legolas' death," Aragorn pointed out, "If he dies, open war will erupt between the Elves and Dwarves. That would be just a devastating on our world." 

"Where is this hidden cave?" Frodo then asked softly from Legolas' side. 

"The cave is actually not far from Rivendell - perhaps a two days journey. It is hidden in a valley east of here in the Misty Mountains. But as I've said, the path is treacherous. The mountain pass to the valley may still be blocked by winter snow and ice. But Aragorn is right; we cannot let Legolas slip so easily. We must try to prevent war at all costs."

"I will go!" a loud shout rang out through the room as the dwarf Gimli erupted into life and sprang to his feet, "I will go to this cave a bring Legolas this healing water." The others looked at the dwarf, momentarily stunned into silence by his sudden uptake of the perilous task. In his eyes shined a desperate look of hope as he looked down to where his unlikely friend lay dying beside him. 

"Gimli," Legolas called weakly from within his cocoon of soft white sheets, as he battled his own body to stay wake, "You do not need to burden yourself with this task." 

"I burden myself with it," Gimli answered softly, laying a hand on the sick elf's shoulder, "All this was brought onto you by me and my ill-fated gift. I will not let you slip away without a fight."

"You offer to brave the dangerous road ahead, Gimli son of Gloin?" Elrond addressed the dwarf with regal regard. 

"I do," he answered with dead set determination.

Taking all of this in, Toreingal finally could take no more and cried out with smoldering hate in his eyes, "No! No! No! No!" Turning on Elrond he exclaimed, "This dwarf poisons my cousin with a cursed dagger and you would allow him to go in search of the poison's only known cure?! He is treacherous and deceitful! Who is to say he will not leave Rivendell saying he is making for the hidden cave when in reality he is returning to his dark mines to leave Legolas to die waiting for a cure he will never return with? I will not allow such a thing to happen. I will go!" 

"This is not your battle, elf!" Gimli retorted stubbornly, "I have already said I will go."

"I will not let a dwarf go to save my cousin as long as my bow still has a taunt string," Toreingal snarled venomously, coming to tower over Gimli's stout figure.

"That's it! I can take no more of this bickering!" Gandalf suddenly cried out in exasperation, breaking the tension between the two by pounding the end of his white staff against the floor loudly and earning himself a startled look from everyone in the room, "It is clear neither of you will be deterred of this task, but it is becoming increasing clear that you both _cannot_ be trusted alone together in the wilderness. I will go with you both to see that this quest is completed with no casualties."

"I will go also," Aragorn quickly offered. 

Following the Ranger came a barrage of 'Me toos' and 'I will gos' until Lord Elrond finally hushed them all with a single outstretched hand. Looking down to Legolas who lay by quietly as all his friends offered to willingly face the dangers ahead to bring him a cure, Elrond said softly, "You have many faithful friends with you. A person would be fortunate to have only one as faithful as yours." Looking up to the group, he rebuked gravely, "But while all of you are noble in your offers, not all may leave for the cave. Speed and quickness are of the essence. King Thanduil's army will soon leave from Mirkwood to march against the Dwarves. The enchanted water must be brought back to Rivendell as fast as possible. Should Legolas die, death and war would sweep over Middle-earth."

Swiveling his head to encompass the company of friends, he added, "The fewer travelers, the faster they could move. Since it is clear Toreingal and Gimli will not be cut from this quest, I would consul only one other companion to make sure there are no more quarrels such as the one I've seen between the two today. Gandalf, you have already offered your presence, so you will accompany them."

Not deterred by Elrond's command, Aragorn stepped forward and insisted, "Please, allow me to go with them. They will need a guide through the Misty Mountains." 

"No, Aragorn, you will be needed here in Rivendell to prepare for Kind Thranduil should he make a preempted attack on any dwarves in these lands. Your skills cannot be spared."

Accepting these words after another moment's hesitation, Aragorn relinquished his fight and drew back to stand with the others who were to remain in Rivendell. 

"We must prepare to leave immediately," Toreingal stated with commanding urgently, "I am no healer, but I doubt my cousin's ability to stave off this poison for long. Lord Elrond, how soon can you have ready all that is required for this quest?"

"By this afternoon," the elf-king answered. 

"Then we will depart then," Toreingal announced loudly to the group. Kneeling beside Legolas' immobile form that lay helplessly beside him, he whispered encouragingly, "I will fly with the wind and bring you back this cure. Rest easy, Legolas. I will not let you down."

Legolas lolled his head sluggishly to the side to face his cousin. Fighting the urge to fall into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, the elf tried to muster the strength to bid Toreingal a safe journey. But he found himself unable to form any coherent words, he was too drained of energy. 

Frustration mounted in the sickened warrior. He was not used to his body's being so unresponsive; for Elves were not ones to suffer sickness or death, and Legolas' condition was new and strange to him. 

Bowing his head to the sick elf, Toreingal raised his right hand to his forehead where he then swiftly brought it to his chin. Then laying his hand on Legolas' fever warmed brow, Toreingal blessed quietly, "May Elbereth watch over you until I return..." 

Then standing, Toreingal made as if to leave to ready for his journey but suddenly halted dead in his tracks several paces from Legolas' bed. Swiveling on his heels, he called back to Gimli with a disdainful gaze, "You, dwarf, I will be keeping a close eye on. Even after Legolas is brought back to health, you will answer for your treachery. Do not think that since you have come with me in search of the healing water with me that I will forgive you." With that, the elf stalked out of the door. Leaving those still in the room staring after him. 

In the still silence that followed in Toreingal's wake, Legolas felt his energy leaving his body swiftly. Sleep called to him softly, lulling him onto the brink of unconsciousness where reality and dreams faded and folded into each other to form a misty fog. Fighting off the call to slip away into sleep, Legolas called out softly, "Gimli?"

Coming quickly to the elf's side, the dwarf asked gently, "What is it, my friend?"

Eyes already slowly falling shut in exhaustion, Legolas murmured, his words slightly slurred, just above a whisper, "Gimli, I apologize for my cousin's words… No matter what he may say, he means well. I thank you for going, though you are too stubborn for your own good. Maybe one of these days someone will finally beat some sense into that thick skull of yours. But I thank you nonetheless…Just please hasten back." 

Gimli looked down at this, tears beginning to brim along his eyes as he stared into the floor, unable to meet his friend's gaze. How could Legolas still banter as though nothing had happened between them? How could he not blame him for the evil that had befallen him? What had he ever done for this elf to deserve such forgiveness or friendship? "Legolas…" he began in a faltering voice, "I…I'm sorry…about all of this. I-"

"Gimli. Stop." the elf ordered with surprising force in his frail voice, cutting the dwarf off before he could get out anymore. Looking into the dwarf's dark brown eyes, Legolas said purposely, "This is not your fault. I do not blame you. And if you do not stop with all these tiring apologies, I will be forced to string you up by that beard of yours."

Gimli could not fight the grim smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. Leave it to Legolas to let him keep his pride. Over time, both had learned the full depth of each other's pride and knew how hard it was for the other to offer an apology. Nodding in understanding, he placed a hand tenderly onto his friend's shoulder. But in his heart, the dark whisper of guilt still echoed through the dwarf's soul.

Weakly reaching up and seizing Gimli's hand into his own, Legolas gave Gimli a small, wan smile before finally letting his eyelids slowly shutter close. He could no longer fight the exhaustion that weighted on his body and mind. Comforted with the knowledge that Gimli and his closest friends were there by his side, Legolas let himself slip away into the deep void of sleep where the exhaustion and growing pain of the dark poison coursing through his veins could not follow. And although Legolas fell into distant dreams far astray from the world in which he left his worried friends, his weak but firm grip on Gimli's hand did not falter.

Fighting the hitching sob that threatened to break from his constricted throat, Gimli hung his head over the poisoned elf's body, ashamed and grief-stricken that he was the one to bring Legolas so much pain and suffering. 

~This is all my fault. How can Legolas not blame me. It is my fault that he may die…~ 

"Take heart," Gandalf said reassuringly, seeing the dwarf's turmoil and came up behind him to place a reassuring hand on Gimli's muscular shoulder, "Legolas will not slip into darkness so easily. Lord Elrond will fight back this poison for as long as it will take for us to return with the enchanted water."

"I will not let Legolas down," Gimli affirmed quietly with solid resolve as he looked up into the Istari's wrinkled face. 

"Then we must go now and prepare for your departure. You must ride long and hard to reach the hidden valley and cave and a great many things must be made ready. You will leave tonight before the sun sets," Elrond said in a deep voice of calm direction. 

"What about Legolas?" Sam asked worriedly from the archer's side, standing on his toes to look over the edge of the large bed to better see the elf's sleeping face that still seemed many shades too pale than what would be deemed healthy. 

"He will sleep for many hours. I am surprised to have even seen him awake. The herbs and medicine Gandalf and I gave him last night are potent and strong. To have seen him wake from under the power of my medicine exemplifies his strength and resistance He will not fall so easily," Lord Elrond answered with great regard and respect for the northern wood-elf. But despite his reassuring words, he knew Legolas' strength would only sustain him for so long until Eronel's dark poison finally overtook him.

"Hear that?" Pippin exclaimed, oblivious to the hidden truth of Elrond's words, "Legolas'll be fine! He'll make it!"

"Let us hope…" Aragorn muttered under his breath, meeting Gandalf's eyes and seeing in them the wizard's own doubt of the stricken elf's ability to hold off the deadly poison that was slowly pulling him down into darkness and death, "For all hope now lies with the enchanted water of the hidden cave…"

*********

Darkness permeated through every particle of the air as a distant laugh rang out over the distance. "Hope all you will…For it will avail you not. I am waiting for you. I am waiting, Gimli son of Gloin and descendent of the hated dwarf that drove me into this lonely abyss… I can sense you coming. It will not be long now until Eronel reigns fire once again upon the Elves and Dwarves of Middle-earth…" 

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Don't forget to review!

Signing out

-LAXgirl 


	3. The Painful Burden of Friendship

Well, the update took a little longer than expected but here it is! Thanks for all those wonderful reviews. I just want to say in response to one of the reviews posted: Things are _not _going to be as easy as they may seem. I have a couple plot twists up my sleeves…But I can't tell you what they are just yet… he he he *laughing evilly to herself*

Note to be made: I think from now on, I'm going to be posting shorter chapters then I normally would so that I can update faster for all you wonderful readers. A usual chapter for me is about nine or more typed pages, but it takes a long time for me to write one of those. So for time's sake and my reader's (probably short range) attention span, I'll be going more frugal with my words. 

Disclaimer: All characters are owned by JRR Tolkien or whoever actually holds the rights to Lord of the Rings…So in layman's terms, Legolas ain't mine. 

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"Thank you, Aragorn. I could not stand to be flat on my back any longer. I needed to move around," Legolas said weakly as he held onto the Ranger's strong shoulder for support. Slowly placing one unsteady foot after another in front of him, the wood elf gradually made his way towards the open doorway of his palace guest room that led out to the room's large private balcony outside. Locking his eyes in dead set determination on the seemingly distant balcony, Legolas added in a strained voice, "I doubt I could have asked anyone else to help me. I hate to admit it, but I am embarrassed to have to be helped like this - as though I'm a child just learning how to walk." 

"Think nothing of it. Just don't strain yourself too much," Aragorn cautioned, walking at barely a crawl to keep beside Legolas as the elf pushed himself to walk unaided. Pity went out from Aragorn's heart as the Mirkwood elf struggled on beside him. 

Despite Elrond's orders that Aragorn or some other attendant was to be by Legolas' side if he should stand and walk around a bit, the warrior refused to let the Ranger help him any more then by just being there to fulfill the king's orders. Aragorn said nothing about this decision, understanding that Legolas' ego had suffered heavy damage from his weakening illness and failing health. 

Nearing the threshold of the balcony Legolas paused for breath, unconsciously leaning more onto Aragorn as his body sagged in exhaustion from the short ten foot journey from his bed. His vision blurred slightly for a second before managing to focus again. Sweat glistened on his brow as he quickly wiped his hand across his forehead and pushed back several loose strands of un-brushed, long blond hair from his face. 

"You should not be pushing yourself so hard, Legolas," Aragorn said with concern, seeing exhaustion written on the elf's face, "I admire your determination, but you are not well. You must rest." Trying to turn Legolas back inwards towards the empty bed that sat forlornly against the far wall of the darkened room, Aragorn was dismayed as the elf planted his feet firmly and shook his head stubbornly.

"No," he answered in a strong tone of undisputable finality, "I will not lay helpless in that bed anymore waiting for death. I am going outside to breath some fresh air."

Contemplating his two courses of action; either forcing the elf to submit to more bed rest or actually allowing Legolas the simple victory of going outside to momentarily escape his personal prison of sickness, Aragorn finally hung his head in defeat. "So be it," he muttered, giving a strong shoulder to the weakened elf. 

Stepping barefoot onto the chilly stone balcony, Legolas felt a small jolt of rejuvenation course through his debilitated body as the rainy spring air of Rivendell whistled past, pulling the thin white material of his loose shirt and black leggings from off against his body to gently snap and flutter in the wind. Taking a deep breath of the fresh air, the elf could feel Nature soothing his soul's troubles and distress. 

Coming up to the thick stone banister of the room's balcony, Legolas looked out over the quiet elven city of Rivendell. On the steep slopes beyond the mountain city, the waterfalls that fed the main vein of water that flowed through Rivendell rushed down, swollen with newly fallen rainwater. The dark green of the surrounding wet forests stood in sharp contrast to the gray sky overhead, making the beauty of the landscape touch the elf's heart in a strange mixture of sorrow and awe. The gentle drizzle that fell from the thick gray clouds overhead onto the small overhanging roof of the balcony hissed softly in Legolas' ears, reminding him of warm summer rains in his homeland of Mirkwood. 

Taking in a deep breath of the wet earthy air that rose to the wood elf's nose as fragrantly as exotic perfume, Legolas felt a tug in his heart at the sudden thought of never seeing his home again. Memories of the tall ancient trees of Mirkwood ran through his mind as he looked towards the distant green forests. Would he ever see them again? he had to wonder with a sharp sting of longing in his stomach. Would he ever see his father or siblings again? Would he ever have the pleasure of going to another summer festival and dancing in the starlight without any worries of death or pain in his mind? 

He knew he needed to think positively and keep faith in Toreingal, Gimli and Gandalf who had ridden out in the wildness only the day before to find him a cure for the dark poison that coursed through his veins. With them rode his only hope. And it was this frail and fragile hope that he had to hold onto it. It was his only defense against succumbing -at least mentally- to his seemingly dark fate. 

Thinking of this, the elf strayed his hand over to gently touch his left bicep. The bluish coloring that had first began around the small cut on his finger where the poisoned dagger of Gimli had pierced him had now spread up over his elbow. A dull throbbing pain radiated through the whole area of inflicted bluish skin with every beat of the elf's heart. But what was worse then the pain was the knowledge that the coloring was slowly spreading. Every couple of hours, Legolas could see a new line of progression of the poison slowly making its way up the length of his arm. 

Staring out again over the natural beauty of the surrounding landscape, Legolas suddenly could not stand to look at it anymore. It all seemed too perfect and untouched; while he felt defiled and withered, slowly being eaten away by poison and stinking of death. Sickened by these thoughts, Legolas turned sharply from the railing back towards the empty bedroom. Aragorn, startled by his friend's sudden movements, hurried to catch up to the elf as he pushed away from the stone balcony edge and moved back indoors weakly. 

"What's wrong, Legolas?" he asked worriedly, quickly catching up to the stumbling elf and placing a hand on Legolas' thin shoulder. Not answering, Legolas recoiled under Aragorn's touch and shrugged the man's hand from off him violently. Becoming further concerned by his friend's unexplained actions, Aragorn demanded more forcefully as he grabbed hold of the elf and easily wheeled him around to face him, "Legolas, what's wrong?!"

Turning on the Ranger suddenly, Legolas shouted with frustrated tears brimming on the bottom of his piercing blue eyes and anger in his voice, "I will tell you what's wrong, Aragorn, if you really must know! I am dieing! And though it may seem to you a natural and expected event, I cannot accept it. I am an Elf - immortal and immune to sickness, yet here I stand, slowly withering away! Unable to stand unless with the aid of another! I have fought in wars and countless battles, never afraid of dieing under the blade of the enemy. But what now? How am I to accept my death if I can not even find dignity in it?!"

As if suddenly drained of all feeling and emotion by this flood of misdirected anger, Legolas fell silent, his head hanging down against his chest in exhaustion. The soft choke of a sob sounded deep from within his throat as he stared at the floor, unable to bear Aragorn's concerned gaze. Unable to find words that seemed suitable as a response, Aragorn could do nothing more then place his hand on the elf's shoulder in reassurance and unspoken comfort.

"I am sorry," Legolas' voiced softly after a moment. All anger had left his tone, replaced by a small sorrowful voice of hopelessness, "I had no right to turn on you like that. This is not your fault. I can feel my body dieing around me, and I am unable to do anything… I feel like such a burden to others. It is because of me war may destroy Middle-earth… But above all else I am afraid of death…" 

Closing his eyes against the threatening flood of frustrated tears, the elf again fell silent. The look on the elf's pale, sick face tore at Aragorn's heart as Legolas slowly leaned against the outer wall of the room as if to find some emotional support there. 

Stepping forward, the Ranger whispered softly in elvish, _"Keep hope, my friend. For hope is the only thing you can hold onto in times like these. But while you may suffer, remember your friends will not forsake you and let you face this demon alone. I am here should you ask for help. You are no burden. The only burden here is the burden of having to see you suffer…"_

Looking at the Ranger for a silent moment of contemplation, the elf thought to himself quietly. Finding strength in Aragorn's words, Legolas then slowly pulled himself back onto his unsteady feet. Not saying another word, the elf held out his hand to silently ask for Aragorn's help; accepting the fact that he did need aid in his sickened state. Moving beside Legolas, Aragorn offered his shoulder again, not about to offer any more help to the proud elf then what was asked for. 

As the weak elf took hold and slowly dragged himself at a crawl towards the door, he spoke softly, "Aragorn, I feel I must explain for my despair…" 

"There is nothing to explain," the Ranger cut off, not fully understanding the direction of the wood-elf's speech, "I understand the helplessness you must be feeling." 

"No," Legolas chastened in a low voice, shaking his head weakly. Finding confidence with his long trusted friend, the elf prince continued in a hushed voice, as if afraid of being overheard by any other ears, "Since this poison has entered my body, I have felt the presence of a dark figure whispering of my death…"

Almost halting in his tracks, the Ranger thought at first he had misheard Legolas. But the grim and imploring look for belief on the elf's face told him he had not. Aragorn looked at Legolas sharply with an unreadable face as he listened silently while the elf continued. 

"At first it came only in my dreams but now I have begun to hear its soft whisper in my waking moments when I am alone. But when I turn to find the voice, I see nothing. I can feel a shadow following me in the darkness, just beyond my sight but always there - waiting for reasons I cannot know…"

"Legolas…" Aragorn stumbled in a hesitant tone, at a loss for words at how to exactly react to the sick elf's crazy notions of being haunted by a dark, unseen ghost, "What do you mean?" 

Staring out before him with a distant look in his eyes, Legolas at first gave no answer. He could tell by the look in the Ranger's eyes that Aragorn did not believe him. He knew he should have never said anything, but he just felt like he needed to talk to someone he could trust. It seemed he would have to face this growing mystery alone. 

"I do not know exactly what I mean…" Legolas sighed wearily after a long moment as the two came up beside the large bed of his room, "They are dark, shifting images that I am not sure I have actually seen or heard. Think no more of what I have just said. I have not been able to sleep well as of late…" 

Trailing off lamely with this excuse, Legolas could now begin to feel exhaustion quickly stealing over him. The throbbing in his arm felt worse then before and Legolas had to stifle a whimper of pain. All the elf wished right then was to sleep and escape the pain of Eronel's poison at least for time. A cold sweat chilled his skin from the exertion of him traveling to look out onto Rivendell from the balcony. His heart fluttered tiredly as he thought of rest and painless sleep. 

Meanwhile, a small shiver of fear was creeping down the Ranger's spine. Worry seized his heart and mind. What could this mean? Truly Legolas had not been lying when he had said he thought he had seen something… or someone. The desperate look in his eyes had told Aragorn that for sure. But surely, he was speaking madness… 

Keeping Legolas from just collapsing onto the bed in exhaustion, the dark haired man gently helped the impossibly light elf lower himself down. Fear rose in Aragorn's throat as he silently pondered the archer's insane ramblings.

'This is not good,' Aragorn thought to himself with dread as the elf fell onto the soft sheets, already slipping away into dark unconsciousness, his half closed eyes dimming as sleep took him, 'Lord Elrond said one of the symptoms of the poison was hallucinations… but I did not think Legolas would actually fall victim to them.'

Hiding his sinking suspicions of Legolas' rapidly deteriorating health, Aragorn said reassuringly to the half conscious archer, "Rest now. I will go and see if Lord Elrond has any herbs to ease your pain while you sleep." 

Standing quickly from Legolas' bedside, the Ranger hastily made for the door. In his heart as he closed the door behind him outside in the palace hallway was a gripping dread and despair. Legolas was slipping away faster then they had thought; he was already succumbing to the poison's power. Aragorn could only hope and pray that Gandalf, Gimli, and Toreingal would return soon. Because if they didn't, blood would stain Middle-earth and war would destroy all that they had suffered and fought to preserve only several years before… 

********* 

Meanwhile, leagues away from Rivendell in the deep forests of the Misty Mountains, the same gentle spring rain that had soothed Legolas was not such a welcome experience to the small group of three weary travelers that steamed ahead through the misty drizzle. Everything for the past day and a half had been cold and wet. Their thick cloaks were sopping wet with rain water as were their packs, making travel utterly miserable. 

The band weaved quickly between the thick trunks of towering ancient gray trees in the endless sea of rain dripping forest. Keeping in a straight line, the tired travelers urged their horses to keep a slow but steady trot. Snorting in distaste for their riders' request, the swift elven steeds of Rivendell nevertheless complied. Steam raised in small wispy tendrils from off their hides to waft up and disappear in the cool misty air as they took the next hill with unbroken strides. 

Accustomed to hard rides and long distances, the horses clip clopped with hollow hoof beats over the steep and rocky terrain. Any other normal horses would have found the mountain path difficult and treacherous, but not the ones chosen by Lord Elrond for this urgent mission. They were the swiftest and most hardy steeds Rivendell's king could provide. 

Tall walls of steel gray stone and rock spiraled upwards to the overcast sky where the snow covered peaks of the surrounding mountains then faded away into the clouds as the travelers passed between them. Hanging overhead of the small band of travelers was a thick mesh like canopy of dark green leafs that managed to stave off much of the falling rain, but allowed some drops of water to patter down onto the brows of the weary strangers. 

"How much further do you think this valley is?" Gimli, the dwarf, asked miserably from behind Gandalf's pure white stallion, Shadowfax. The dwarf gripped the reigns tightly as the group startled up another slope of mountain terrain. Even with the stirrups of the saddle notched to their highest level, the dwarf's toes barely grazed the metal rings that dangled from the horse's side. As awkward on a horse as a Hobbit in a boat, Gimli asked hopefully, "We have been riding now for a night and a half day without rest or stop. Shouldn't we be nearing it by now?" 

Glancing over his shoulder from beneath his wide brimmed white hat, the white wizard replied, "I should think by Lord Elrond's directions that it should be somewhere beyond this ridge we are now crossing. If I am correct about this, then we have made better time then originally thought, thanks to Lord Toreingal's expert motivational skills and leather driving whip…," Gandalf finished with a sarcastic undertone in his gentle voice that was directed towards the elf that rode several paces ahead of the two. 

Hearing his name mentioned, Toreingal wheeled around in the saddle of his dapple gray mount and snorted from beneath the hood of his dark green traveling cloak, "While you may find this something to make jokes about, I do not, Wizard. My cousin lays dieing back in Rivendell as we speak. Speed is our greatest concern right now, and I will not dally in bringing Legolas the only known cure to this poison. I could have probably been on my return trip by now with the enchanted water if Lord Elrond had allowed me to go alone as I had wished. But no! He had to let that dwarf accompany me so he could slow me down and sabotage the mission!"

Giving Gimli a piercing warning glance from his pale gray eyes, the elf turned back in his seat and urged his horse to a faster trot with a quick tap with the heels of his boots, leaving the wizard and dwarf in his tracks. Clamoring up the steep wet slope to the top of the ridge of the thickly forested hill, Toreingal's cloaked figure slowly faded away like a ghost into the misty rain. Finally, after a few brisk strides of his horse, he had figured he had put enough distance between himself and his companions and slowed again to a slow trot to be alone with his thoughts. 

"Don't listen to him," Gandalf said softly to Gimli as he eyed Toreingal's ghostly outline several yards ahead, "I understand his frustration, but he has no right to take it out on you or I."

"He has a right to blame me," Gimli refuted sadly, sighting down the line between his horses ears awkwardly to where Legolas' cousin plodded ahead through the rain. Going over the ridge of the hill they were ascending, Toreingal disappeared from view on its other side, "It is because of me and that accursed dagger that we had to go on this journey- although I do not regret undertaking it. I owe Legolas that much to be the one to go in search of a cure…"

The white wizard looked back over his shoulder to the dwarf as he patted Shadowfax gently on the neck to motion for the horse to slow a bit to draw back alongside Gimli. Letting the soft hiss of the spring rain fill the silence of the forest around them, Gandalf said in his wise grandfatherly tone, "I also understand _your_ frustration for Legolas' suffering, Gimli. But you are not to blame for this. You will be of no help to Legolas if you do not realize this soon. He does not blame you, so you should neither. There is a great friendship between you and he. And it is because of this, you were unable to not go to his aid."

The dwarf nodded his stout little head thoughtfully at this. "Perhaps you are right, Gandalf… But I will always feel responsible for Legolas' suffering."

"Hmm.. You speak as though Legolas has already fallen into darkness…" Gandalf noted grimly with a turn of his head, letting the rainwater that had gathered on the brim of his hat to run off in several small rivers.

There came no reply from the guilt ridden miner as Gimli rocked back in forth silently in his saddle, staring out in front of him deep in thought. The words of the wizard hung ominously in the air like a thick fog. Seeing pain in the dwarf's dark eyes, Gandalf spoke no more, letting the soft rhythmic hoof beats of the horses fill the void. 

After several moments of uneasy silence, there suddenly came a shout from over the ridge. Coming over the ridge in a quick gallop, Toreingal's hooded form came into view. Slowing his horse as he neared Gandalf and Gimli, the elf shouted excitedly, "There is a break in the mountain range just ahead - a narrow path only several paces wide. I would have probably missed it through the trees if I had not been looking for it. I can see a valley beyond."

"That is good news," the white wizard nodded at Toreingal's report, "We have finally reached Eronel's valley then. Come. Let us hurry, for we mustn't stay here long. I have already sensed a faded but lingering shadow of dark magic."

"Then let us not stand here talking and wasting precious time," Toreingal snorted impatiently as he wheeled his horse around and spurred it onwards back over the ridge, not waiting to see if the others were following. 

Staring after the elf's quickly retreating figure through the misty rain, Gimli tightened his grip on the horses reigns and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, urging his mount to follow. Whining in response, Gimli's chestnut brown horse gaited easily up the ridge with its rider bouncing recklessly in the saddle like a sack of flour. Following close behind, Shadowfax bounded up the slope as easily as a jackrabbit towards the pass of Eronel's valley.

********

I know I left it off at kind of a weird place, but hey! That's life… Anyway, things will be picking up _very _soon! Remember that plot twist I mentioned up top? Well, it'll be in the next chapter or so, so keep a look out for it! *chuckles evilly to herself again*

So if you liked this latest installment of Legolas torturing, drop me a review and hassle my lazy butt to get another chapter out soon! Thanks again for all those that have reviewed! 

Signing out

-LAXgirl


	4. Sand Slips Through the Hourglass

Well, reviews were scanty for the third chapter at best, but I nevertheless labored long and hard to get this chapter out despite all odds… Maybe I should just take a hint from the bad feedback and just accept the fact that I can't write to save my life… But whatever the case, it looks like I lied when I said I'd be having shorter chapter from now on…Talk about famous last words! This chapter itself is a book! But don't get too excited, this was a fluke.

But before we get to the story, I wanted to acknowledge and thank those that did review my last chapter in what will be officially dubbed the 'LAXgirl Forum of Insanity and Discourse!'

So here we go:

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Hermione Eveningfall: OK…somebody has some split personality issues… ^_^ Anyway, thanks. I _do _feel very special to be on anyone's favorite's list. You love me! You really love me!!! Good luck with "Hope has a Place" I'll be checking it out soon…

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_Shirehobbit2002@yahoo__: _Yeah, I know it's the same person as up top, but this one has only one personality for me to deal with… LOL I tried to get Toreingal's character as dislikable as possible. It looks like he won't be having thousands of fan followings as his hot stud muffin cousin!

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Mystical Magic: Aaaa! Don't hurt me! See I got my lazy butt in gear and got you another chapter! And no…Toreingal is not evil. 

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Kaimelieamin: Yayness! A review! Thanks…I like how I describe Legolas' helplessness too…It just makes me want to give him a big hug…

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Little Wing: *blushes profusely* Thanks… You're like the third person to say I've kept everyone in character… I don't go out of my way to do that but thanks for noticing! 

OK, enough of that. Back to the story. But we can't forget that all important disclaimer! Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all related characters are not mine. Names, characters, places, and incidents, either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally without permission from whoever owns LOTR. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. (How's that for a disclaimer…?) 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Uneasiness gnawed at the back of Gimli's mind like an unreachable itch as he and his two companions guided their horses slowly through the forest of towering trees. The solid brown trunks of the looming giants stood like ancient pillars of stone; so great in girth that four men would have been needed to hug the monstrosities completely. Their leafy green umbrella tops disappeared into the sky overhead where each other's neighbor's branches merged into one to create a giant meshy green blanket. 

An unnatural, suffocating silence surrounded the small band of weary travelers. Even Shadowfax and his elf-raised brethren seemed to sense something unnerving in the heavy damp air. Their sodden hoof falls on the thick earthy soil and an occasional nervous snort were the only sounds to break the still silence of the damp forest. 

The fine drizzle that had fallen tirelessly for the past day and a half on the heads of the three riders had mysteriously tapered off almost immediately after them entering the lush green valley. The low sky remained overcast and gray hidden behind stagnant clouds heavily pregnant with rain. But no drops of water seemed to reach the ground. 

"I don't like this place…" Toreingal muttered warily under his breath, breaking the tension. Scanning the surrounding tree with his sharp eyes as if looking for some hidden enemy, the elf fingered the hilt of the curved knife that hung from his waist nervously. 

Venturing to speak further in the oppressive calm and quiet of the green forest, the elf said uneasily, "There is no sound here. No birds. No animals. Not even the sound of the wind blowing, though I can feel it on my face… And there is something strange about the trees. I cannot hear them speak or even whisper. There is something not right here…"

"While I do not share your elven ability to listen and converse with Nature and Her living creatures, I have noticed the same thing…" Gandalf agreed tightly, "There is something strange about this valley. And I fear I know who is responsible for it. It seems Eronel is not sleeping peacefully in her cave and still has some influence on the outside world, though I do not know to what extent. We should be very cautious from here on in while in this valley."

"Is that possible?" Gimli exclaimed in a hushed voice of amazement that nevertheless rang out like a crash through the abnormally silent forest, "Could this witch still have so much power after so many centuries?"

From somewhere ahead of the dwarf, there came a disdainful snort. From the head of the group, Toreingal swiveled in his saddle to look over his shoulder. Eyeing Gimli from the corner of his eye, the elf curled his lips distastefully at the dwarf and hissed, "Shows how much a dwarf would know… Elves do not diminish in power the older they get unlike some other, lesser races…" Here Legolas' cousin cast a condescending gaze down upon Gandalf and Gimli who seemed to have become representatives for their respective races. "Eronel is one of the Undying. Her powers - no matter how dark - would not have just faded away after a couple hundred years of isolation. No. Elves are not ones to suffer from the harsh grip of time's hands."

"Do not be so proud to state such thing, Toreingal," Gandalf chastened with a sharp glance from his ice blue eyes set beneath a pair of bushy white eyebrows wrinkled with age and wisdom, "For while Eronel may be locked away from the world, her power has most likely been festering and growing in the darkness. Who knows what power she might wield now…" Trailing off, the white wizard stared ahead into the layered walls of thick trees that faded away into a green and brown haze in the far distance. 

The elf contemplated the old man for a long moment before finally giving a small huff and turning his back on the wizard and dwarf, letting the strange stillness of the woods sting their ears once again. Maneuvering their quick and sure-footed horses over the sparse underbrush of the mossy forest floor, the small band penetrated farther into the valley of the trapped sorceress. 

Alone in his thoughts as they delved deeper into the thick forest, Gimli sat atop his mount determined not to slip off the side of the monstrous beast and give the elf something more to jeer about him. Gimli hated ridding horses or anything else for that matter. The dwarf prided himself in his own two legs. 

Keeping one hand on the pommel of the saddle to keep himself anchored to the moving animal's back. Gimli held the reigns loosely in his other gloved hand, unsure of how to exactly use them. Gimli's horse had long ago during the first few hours of the journey sensed the dwarf's lack of horsemanship and merely trotted on beside Gandalf's white stallion, Shadowfax. 

Grumbling quietly to himself, Gimli simmered over how much he hated horseback riding. He hated the feeling of being precariously perched atop an animal five times his own size with the strength to throw him to the ground with a mere toss of its massive head. 

Thinking of this, Gimli's thought obstinately, 'A dwarf should not have to subject himself to riding one of these beasts. Let Men and Elves use them, but not us Dwarves. Legs are the most reliable mode of transportation, I always say, especially a Dwarf's. But Legolas always knew how to handle these things whenever the situation called for it. That's why I always rode with him. It was like that elf could almost talk to them…" 

A deep heaviness came upon Gimli's heart at these thoughts. For a moment he had almost forgotten about his quest and his guilt for his elvish friend. The dwarf hung his head solemnly, falling into memories of the once high-spirited elf. 

But try as he might to remember the happier memories of Legolas' smiling face or one of his sarcastic comments about Dwarves that was always meant in jest and good humor, Gimli could now only see a once proud and fearless elf slowly dying, his skin as pale as snow and eyes filled with pain. 

Gimli's thoughts wondered aimlessly in an endless sea of guilt at the thought of the fading warrior, all the while blaming himself for causing his friend so much pain and suffering. Surely he should have somehow sensed something evil on the blade of that dagger before he had given it to Legolas, but he hadn't. And now Legolas was to pay for his stupidity and foolishness. 

But as Gimli sat wallowing in self-pity and guilt, he came to remember something Gandalf had said in passing. And though they had seemed like only empty words at the time they were spoken, they now seemed to be full of wisdom and knowledge beyond a simple dwarf's understanding.

_'You are not to blame for this. You will be of no help to Legolas if you do not realize this soon. He does not blame you, so you should neither. There is a great friendship between you and he. And it is because of this, you were unable to not go to his aid…'_

It suddenly occurred to Gimli that the white wizard might have understood more about the dwarf then what he really wanted to admit. Gimli now understood Gandalf's words when he had said he was not going to be able to help Legolas as long as he was still in the grips of guilt. Gimli knew he now had to reassess his position in this mission to save his friend's life. Was he to play the helpless victim or the one to actually save the elf? 

Perhaps Gandalf had wanted Gimli to come to this simplistic yet profound conclusion himself, on his own terms and at his own time. Or perhaps, Gandalf had just known that stubborn dwarf was not going to listen to reason no matter how hard the wizard tried to hammer it into his thick little head. 

'Well,' snorted the dwarf to himself, 'I'm not about to let that elf, Toreingal, think I'm nothing more then luggage on this mission. I promised Legolas I was going to bring him back his cure, and I'd give my father's mines away to Orcs before I let that conceded and pompous elf show me up!'

Filled with renewed purpose and energy, Gimli suddenly became aware of a distant bubbling noise like that of a small stream from somewhere in the distance to his right. Gandalf and Toreingal, who rode several paces in front of him, had also seemed to pick up on this welcome sound to their noise-starved ears. From where he sat, Gimli almost swore he actually saw Legolas' cousin's ears perk up at the soft sound. 

"Running water…" Gandalf noted, not to the surprise of the other two who had come to such conclusions by themselves. 

"We should follow it to its source," Toreingal suggested, as he wheeled his snorting gray mount around to face in the direction of the unseen moving water, "Lord Elrond said Eronel's cave was guarded by a waterfall. Thus we should seek out running streams instead of tramping through these woods needlessly as we are now."

"I suppose you thought of that all by yourself, didn't you, elf?" Gimli mocked at Toreingal, slowly returning to his normal proud self. "Well, if you keep coming up with such profound assessments like this, then you may prove yourself useful to this mission yet…" 

Not giving the elf time to recover from this unexpected remark, Gimli tapped his stubby little legs against his horse's ribs. Surprised by the dwarf's sudden show of assertiveness, the chestnut colored mare whined softly and kicked off the ground, galloping away from the others in the direction of the gurgling brook as Gimli bounced recklessly in his saddle and became lost in the walls of surrounding trees.

Left in his wake, Gandalf could only chuckle under his breathe as Toreingal sputtered for words beside him.

"Useful?…Profound assessments!?" the elf spat with rage, almost bristling around the edges with insult, "How dare that dwarf mock me…Of all the disrespect. I should--"

"-Hurry!" Gandalf's merry voice broke out clearly from a short distance away.

Chuckling to himself in amusement for Toreingal's enraged temper tantrum, the white wizard was already in pursuit of Gimli on the back of Shadowfax. "Come along, Toreingal!" he called over his shoulder laughingly, "Gimli is already far ahead of you! Don't just sit there like moss on the side of a tree! We have much to do!" Letting another laugh escape from his bearded lips, Gandalf and Shadowfax took off in the direction the dwarf had just disappeared.

"How my cousin survived so long a time around these people, I will never know," the elf hissed through gritted teeth as he spurred his horse after the two with a quick jab of his boots. Muttering curses about dwarfs and wizards, Toreingal slipped away from the path into the thicket of towering tree trunks and hurried after his quarry. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Breaking out of the silent forest, Toreingal found himself again beside Gandalf and Gimli who sat atop their stopped mounts, looking out before them. The three stood in a treeless space of area several yards long that was covered in a thick carpet of lush green grass and a multitude of other plants. Running through this lush area, a quiet mountain spring several paces wide ran, gurgling lazily as the cold clear water fell and lapped over a shallow bed of slippery smooth rocks. 

Shrouded in a thick gray mist in the east, one of the surrounding mountains of the river valley stood, its snowcapped peaks, which supplied the small stream with its melted snow and ice, scrapped the underside of the low heavy clouds overhead. 

"Which way?" Gimli asked, tentatively directing his question to Gandalf to deliberately ignore the elf that had just joined them. Gimli could feel Toreingal's eyes boring into his back, but took no notice of him. In fact, the dwarf was now beginning to secretly enjoy playing with his friend's cousin solely out of spite. 

The old man sat pondering the question thoughtfully for a brief space of time before finally saying, "I would turn our search first towards the east, since there we would find higher land closer to the stream's source near the base of the mountain. There we might find Eronel's waterfall."

Directing their horses heads east towards the great mountain of rock in the distance, the three moved along the side of the stream. As they rode on quickly to the accompanying soundtrack of the rushing brook, they could begin to notice a gradual change in the land. After a quarter of a mile or so, the banks of the stream began to become a noticeably steeper and rockier grade as more of the lusher river grass gave way to hardier plants more suitable to the quicker current of the stream the closer the three travelers came to its source. 

After a mile and a half, the banks and surrounding land of the stream suddenly became more hilly and rocky, almost jutting straight upwards in small cliffs several feet high. Despite their sturdy nature and strength, the horses of the three began to show signs of struggle along the broken banks of the creek. The very air they breathed seemed to become noticeably closer and heavier the farther they pressed onward, as though weighted down with time and ancient secrets.

"The path is becoming more difficult and the horses are tired. We should leave them and go on by foot. We can move faster that way and allow the horses time to rest before our return journey. We will need all their speed," Toreingal said, suddenly pulling back his dapple-gray mount and stopping. Nimbly leaping from the back of his horse, the elf gently led the creature to a grassy area a short distance away from the edge of the now quickly moving stream whose rushing waters now foamed in a frothy soup around the partially submerged rocks embedded in its bottom. Willing the tired beast to stay with a tender hand on its long face, Toreingal dropped its reigns to the mossy forest floor, not needing to tie it up. 

"I think we should keep moving but not without our horses," Gandalf cautioned under his breath, "I do not like the air around here. It is stagnant with ancient magic. We are getting very close to the one we seek…"

"Well, I for once agree with the elf," Gimli said as he slid from his saddle a bit too ungraceful in comparison with the display just given by his elven companion. Giving thanks for the solid, unmoving ground beneath his feet, the dwarf added, "I ache all over from ridding that creature so far without rest. I fear my legs will be bowed by the time we return to Rivendell. I need to stretch my muscles a bit and walk. I don't need any creature porting me around anymore."

Seeing dissention in the ranks no matter what he counseled, Gandalf huffed obstinately. Snorting softly, the white stallion beneath the wizard pawed the rocky soil beside the banks of the stream and hung its massive head towards the ground tiredly. 

"So I am outvoted from all sides then?" Gandalf sighed as he slid from Shadowfax's broad back. Nuzzling the wizard's side tenderly, the white horse gave a low and pitiful whinny. "Fine then," he said, giving his steed's mighty neck an affectionate pat, "We will go on by foot…" 

Leaving the horses in a small group in the grassy area, Gandalf turned and strode to where Gimli and Toreingal both stood looking up the bank where the path became narrower in the near distance and the trees' thick roots jutted out over the edge of the creek side, making a formidable obstacle course. Slabs and outcrops of slippery rocks also added to the obstruction of the path. 

"What do you say now, Gandalf?" Toreingal sniped arrogantly as the three studied their next leg of the journey, "Would you still risk guiding our horses over this rough terrain?" 

Biting back a quick-tempered comeback to the overly proud elf, Gandalf calmly replied to subtly agitate the warrior, "No. No I wouldn't, Toreingal. Now that I see it, I would have to agree with you. I doubt even Shadowfax could have covered this."

"Well, what are we wasting time here talking about horses we can't even use while Legolas is still waiting for us?" Gimli scoffed impatiently as he started up the side of the terraced stream, his pace brisk and undaunted as he scrambled up the first slop of rocks on his short little dwarf legs. 

Come along then," the old man hastened to the elf as he followed the miner up the climbing creek banks, "The waterfall shouldn't be much further. I can hear the crashing of water nearby and the air is becoming thicker…We are very close now to the witch's cave…"

Grumbling again under his breath, Toreingal slung his bow over his shoulder and leapt after the wizard and dwarf.

~~~~~

It was a magical sight to behold. The clear blue water of the mountain spring sang musical notes as it tumbled gracefully over the eight foot drop of the small gray cliff face into a basin of water at its feet, forming a tranquil pond of shimmering cool water. Not more then twenty five feet across, the pool lapped its sandy banks gently where the water was so clear one could see straight down to its pebbly bottom. On the far end of the pool, the basin gave way to a sloping area where the water then spilled out down another small hill into a rushing stream. 

Massive trees lined the majestic waterfall, their snaking gray roots weaving an intricate pattern along the mossy forest floor. A wispy mist hung low to the ground, giving the area a mysterious and unearthly ambiance. 

"I was not expecting this witch's prison to be so beautiful," Toreingal whispered almost reverently as the three beheld the beauty and serenity of Eronel's lair, "Is this the right place?"

Do not be deceived by appearances," Gandalf said, "I can almost smell the magic in the air it is so thick. This is the place we seek. Do not let your guard down. For here in this seemingly peaceful place, we must be on our highest guard."

Striding closer to the shores of the silver pool at the base of the rushing waterfall, the white wizard leaned against his staff and bowed his head as if listening to the air around him. Toreingal and Gimli stood silently by as Gandalf mediated to himself. Finally, the old man raised his bearded face and said in a low voice, "Yes. This is the place. I can feel Eronel stretching her powers out to us. We must be quick. I do not like this place. No matter how beautiful a rose is, it still has thorn to prick unwary fingers. We must not be fooled by things here. Eronel is a trickstress and manipulator of the senses." 

Looking towards the small waterfall whose waters splashed and fell innocently into the pool below, Gandalf directed, "Come, Toreingal. We must take water from the fall itself. That is where the magic is contained. I need the service of your nimble elf-feet to go over the slippery rocks to get it."

"And what am I to do then?" huffed the dwarf sorely, feeling once again like only baggage. 

"I need your sharp dwarf-eyes to keep watch," Gandalf replied with biting sarcasm and a small smile, as he pulled from some hidden pocket in his flowing white robes a small empty vial corked with glass at the top. Turning his back on the short miner, the wizard bade Toreingal to follow him. 

As the two made their way towards the base of the waterfall, Gimli snorted with wounded pride. So it seemed the elf was going to show him up after all. Their return trip was going to probably be filled with Toreingal's snide comments about how he was the one to actually retrieve the enchanted water instead of Gimli. 

'Just as long as Legolas survives this whole mess, I guess I really won't care what the pointy-eared warg monger says,' Gimli scowled to himself. 

Looking out over the serene and beautiful scene of the waterfall and silver pool, Gimli frowned. 'And just what exactly are my 'sharp dwarf eyes' suppose to be keeping watch for…" he thought despondently to himself, tapping the end of his ax in the earthy soil out of boredom. 

Out of earshot of Gandalf and Toreingal who was currently in the process of skipping carefully from rock to rock along the base of the small waterfall into the silver pool below, Gimli again became aware of the uneasy silence of the encircling forest. A cool breeze kissed the dwarf's cheeks beneath his helmet as his heart thundered loudly in his ears in the stillness. 

Standing there, leaning idly against his useless ax like a prop as he listened to the intense sound of nothing, a cold wave of prickles suddenly crawled up the unsuspecting dwarf's neck. Gimli, at first instinctively froze in place, the unmistakable feeling of being watched clamping down on his mind and senses. 

Gripping the handle of his ax securely, Gimli stilled his breath, trying to hear any sound from his unseen stalker. Willing his heart to stop beating so that he might better analyze the heavy damp air, the miner could not discern any sounds from around him that would alert him to any hidden presence. 

Almost ready to lower his ax and blame his unfounded uneasiness on the stories told to him by Gandalf and Elrond of the entrapped evil sorceress, Gimli suddenly froze as he felt a shiver of cold again creep up his spine.

"Gimli…"

A soft plaintive voice whispered out from what seemed like a great distance. It was female and almost sad in tone as he speaker again called out to the startled dwarf by name only now more pleadingly and urgent. 

"Gimli…"

Now frightened beyond all reasoning, the miner wheeled around thinking the voice had come from behind, but found only empty forest stretched out before him. Straining his yes to see anything, the dwarf called out in the strongest voice he could muster, "Who's there? Show yourself!"

"I am here…" whispered the soft and sad voice, which seemingly had now sounded from everywhere but nowhere at once. 

Spinning around on his heels to find the mysterious speaker, confusion and extreme nervousness assailed Gimli as his searching eyes were again met with nothing but the strange waterfall and pool. "Where are you?" he shouted more demandingly, becoming frustrated by these frightening games of secrecy. 

"Right here…" the feminine voice again riddled softly, her musical syllables flitting like butterflies between the dwarf's ears.

Pinpointing the elusive voice, the dwarf's head snapped down to the perfectly smooth glass-like surface of the silver pool. What Gimli saw shimmering on the mirror-like water startled a tiny gasp from his lips. There, reflected on the still surface of the mountain pond was the watery image of a porcelain-skinned woman. A cascade of pale blond hair, like that of the shade of frost-covered straw, flowed around her flawless oval face and down over his slender shoulders. But at the woman's collarbone, her image became wispy and faded away into nothing in the silvery water. Poking out from the waves of fair hair, a set of delicately pointed ears caught the dwarf's eyes. The mysterious woman was an Elf. 

Staring dumbly at the ghostly apparition there on the water, Gimli's breath caught in his throat at the stunning beauty before him. For a minute, the dwarf thought he was looking down upon an image of his beautiful Lady of the Woods, Galadriel. But instead of the Elf-Lady's profoundly deep and ancient gray eyes that were filled with wisdom and immeasurable understanding of all things, a pair of sharp blue eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul attacked Gimli. Under their cold hard gaze, he felt suddenly naked and seized by their intense power. And he knew he was looking down onto the face of the ancient elven sorceress Eronel. 

"What magic is this?" Gimli muttered to himself as he took a curious step closer to the pond's sandy edge, immediate fear and awe blinding him from any caution. 

"I know why you have come, Gimli son of Gloin," Eronel's watery image whispered softly, "You have come a long way seeking salvation for the Elf prince, Legolas. You have come for the enchanted water…" The woman's voice sounded in Gimli's mind as though it echoed through his very skull. Startled by this, Gimli realized her voice did not come from her lips, even though they moved in sequence to her words, but were rather projected into his own thoughts and heard not by ears but by his soul. 

"And how, may I ask, did the Lady come to know of my name and mission?" Gimli questioned with feigned politeness, feeling irrepressibly suspicious and uneasy towards the entrapped sorceress who had somehow projected her image into the waterfall's basin. 

"I know many things…" Eronel answered almost indifferently to the question. The woman's voice was nevertheless sweet and soft to Gimli, as was her expression that seemed to milk pity from the dwarf's heart. But Gimli could almost swear he saw some unexplainable glint of mischief in the elf's piercing blue eyes as she continued on in her soft musical voice. "I also know that what you seek will not save the prince. The poison in his veins is more powerful then any magic that flows in this waterfall…"

"How do you know that? What lies are you trying to deceive me with?" Gimli demanded as he came directly up over the watery image of the witch. Every particle in the dwarf's being screamed caution as he noticed a strange glint in the elf's eyes, as though n inner fire was smoldering inside, waiting for its time to blaze forth and scorch everything in its path. 

But the fleeting burst of light vanished quickly as Eronel answered in her fair voice, "As I have already told you, Master Dwarf, I see and know many things. Your friend's plight is not beyond my knowledge. Yes. The enchanted water will not save him. He will die… unless I go to him. I know you know who I am and of my past. Otherwise you would not have come to me. If you release me from my prison, I can save Lord Legolas' life. I am the only one that can purge the poison from his body."

Gimli's eyes narrowed at the sorceress' entrancing face skeptically. "Do not take this Dwarf for a fool, witch," he growled from behind his furry red beard, "You are right in that I know who you are, Eronel. I know why you were imprisoned in your dark hole. Why should I believe or release you? You are nothing but a liar and murderer. You would bring only death and destruction to Middle-Earth."

There came again the same small kindling of fire in Eronel's cold blue eyes as from before, but again faded quickly away before Gimli could fully realize he had seen it. Sadly looking at the dwarf with imploring eyes, the elf replied softly, "I do not blame you for your distrust. My past is not the happiest or brightest of tales. But through the many centuries of my dark isolation, I have seen the evil of my ways and now seek for redemption. I want to right my past wrongs and do good. And I want to save the life of the one that is still suffering from my sins. Please believe me when I say I want to make amends…"

Eronel's heartfelt words struck a spot in the dwarf's heart that made him begin to wonder is she wasn't, in fact, telling the truth of her conversion. It hardly seemed to him that this delicate creature before him could have ever been as evil as Elrond or Gandalf had said. Moved by the sorrowful expression on the beautifully entrancing female elf's fair face, Gimli began to feel doubt growing in his mind about Eronel's evil nature. 

"How am I to trust you?" he asked uncertainly, "What guarantee do I have your intentions are pure?"

"You must trust me just as Legolas trusts you to return to him with a cure," Eronel's voice whispered pleadingly from the pool's surface, "The magic water will not save Legolas' life, only I can. Would you deceive your friend's trust because you could not forgive me for my sins as he did for you? Please believe me…"

Gimli stood dumbstruck, unable to think of a response to Eronel's words that had struck him harder then a blow to the face. Torn between his brain that told him to not listen to the imprisoned witch and his heart that told him to heed her words, Gimli felt his head spinning with a million different thoughts and emotions. What should he do? Should he believe her that the water was not going to diffuse the poison in Legolas' veins? Or was she simply lying to be released as Gandalf and Elrond had warned him she would?

Staring into the witch's fathomless blue eyes that seemed to rake his very soul, Gimli struggled to find words and come to a decision. The world seemed to stop as the dwarf wrestled with himself and his own doubt. Dizzied by these weighty decisions and choices, Gimli closed his eyes tightly from the elf's piercing gaze. 

'What do I do?' the dwarf's mind reeled, 'What if she's right and the magic water doesn't work? But what if she's lying? Can I really take either of these chances?'

But before Gimli could reach any conclusion in the storm of thoughts that thundered in his head, he suddenly felt a strong hand come down onto his shoulder from behind. Eyes snapping open, the startled miner whipped around in his heels, ax gripped tightly between both hands to face whatever enemy had snuck up behind him unawares. 

But instead of some terrible enemy, Gimli found himself looking up into the gentle face of Gandalf. Behind the wizard stood Toreingal, looking rather impatient and antsy as he shifted between his two feet in the direction of the waiting horses they had left behind. 

"Are you alright, Gimli?" the white wizard questioned with concern written in his ice blue eyes, "Toreingal and I returned from retrieving the water to find you staring into the water mumbling under your breath."

Shaking the fuzziness from his eyes, the dwarf brought a trembling hand to his head. It felt as though he had just woke from a daydream but was still in the lingering aftereffects of it. Suddenly remembering the ghostly face on the water, Gimli looked down quickly to the silver pool's edge. But nothing was there, save a gentle ripple along the surface of the pond. 

"Did you see or hear anything?" he asked excitedly, still staring into the water's surface as if searching for anything to validate what he thought he had seen. 

"Hear what?" Gandalf asked gently, cocking an eyebrow at the dwarf.

"What are you blabbering about, dwarf?" Legolas' cousin hissed with condescending eyes of impatience. 

Not knowing if he should divulge the vision of the elf witch to his companions, Gimli stuttered quickly, "Nothing… Nothing at all. I'm fine. Never mind me. Just lost myself for a second… Did you get the water?" he asked hastily to change to the topic away from himself. 

"We did," Toreingal interjected sharply, "And now that we have it, we should be on our way. We have wasted enough time on your daydreams. Legolas' time is running out as we speak." Turning on the heels of his light boots, the elf jogged nimbly off in the direction they had first reached the lush waterfall glade. 

Giving Gimli one last questioning look of concern, Gandalf slowly turned to follow the elf. "Come along, Gimli," he called over his shoulder, "Toreingal is right. Legolas is waiting for us."

Frozen where he stood, Gimli looked after the retreating wizard before giving one last uncertain glance at the silver pool's empty surface, almost expecting to again see the Elf-Lady's beautiful face. Did he just imagine everything? Or did it really happen?

Feeling some inner pull of doubt as he forced himself to turn his back on Eronel's cave, Gimli quickly walked in the direction his companions had just disappeared. As he trudged away into the ancient forest, Gimli could swear he felt a voice in the back of his mind, softly whispering after him. 

"I will wait for you, Master Dwarf…I will wait for your return when you see the folly of you errand…"

And as Gimli lost sight of the waterfall and still pool of mountain water, he swore he could catch the faint whisper of a mirthful laugh carried on the chilly spring breeze until it faded from his ears and left only the dead silence of the forest to fill the empty air…

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The darkened elven city of Rivendell lay under a ghostly glow cast by the raising moon in the east. Few lights dotted the city's many streets or warmed any of the windows of the gracefully designed buildings. A tense stillness permeated the river valley as though fear of an oncoming threat had silenced all noise from its inhabitants. 

But deep within the palace of Rivendell's king, there was no still tension, but rather a raging war. A great battle was taking place in one of the Elf-Lord's many guest rooms. It was a battle between life and death, light and darkness, hope and despair. But the battle for life was steadily losing its stronghold…

"Legolas, if you can hear me, you have to swallow these herbs," Aragorn called urgently to the thrashing elf held tightly in his arms. Burning with fever, the elf-prince showed no signs of acknowledging the Ranger's plea. Crying out weakly, Legolas writhed in agony as he clenched his throbbing left arm tightly, unaware of anything else but the excruciating pain that seared his veins and flesh.

"Can you hold him still, Aragorn?" Elrond said as he bent over Legolas' fever ridden body laying on the large bed of the room, "We must try to get some of this medicine in him to try to slow the poison or we may very well lose him tonight."

Sitting on the edge of the bed opposite Aragorn, the ancient elf-king gently cupped Legolas' chin in his hand and tipped the prince's head back. Forcefully prying open Legolas' mouth, Elrond quickly placed a single dried leaf under the archer's tongue. Holding the sick elf's mouth closed so he couldn't spit the bitter tasting herb out, Elrond and Aragorn waited anxiously to see what effects it would have as Legolas thrashed on the bed in a delirium of pain. 

Moaning pitifully around the bitter plant in his mouth, Legolas struggled weakly in Aragorn's pinning grasp as the leaf slowly dissolved under his tongue. Sweat poured from the elf's burning forehead as the Ranger tried to keep him still. Eyes clenched tightly shut, the archer kicked his legs uselessly in the tangled mess of bed sheets that had become ensnared around his feet during his struggles. Keeping the distressed elf pinned tightly against his chest to keep him from convulsing right off the side of the bed, Aragorn could feel Legolas' heat pounding like a drum. The bluish coloring of Legolas' infected arm had now spread to the top of his shoulder, doubling his suffering. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Legolas' thrashing began to die away, leaving only an exhausted elf shivering in its wake. Panting weakly, the archer lay like a limp doll cradled in Aragorn's arms. Long strands of blond hair lay plastered against the sides of his pain crumpled face. 

"What did you give him?" Aragorn asked Elrond as he laid his sick friend back down onto the bed and pulled one of the sheets over the elf's now stilled body. 

"_Athelas_," the king answered tiredly, watching the Ranger move to gently wipe a damp cloth over Legolas' pale face and then place the rag over the elf's forehead in attempt to cool his raging fever. Hanging his head solemnly, Elrond said, "Aragorn, our medicine is beginning to have little effect against this poison. Before long, it will do nothing at all. If Gandalf and the others do not return soon, I fear Legolas will slip away from us."

"They will return in time," the dark haired man countered a little too quickly. But his words seemed hollow, even to his own ears. 

Closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly, Elrond muttered wearily, "But what if they do not? I would give Legolas another day at most." Taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts, the ancient elf decided it was now time to voice the gnawing worry that had been festering in his troubled mind for some time now. "We must begin to prepare for the worst, Aragorn. My scouts have already reported movement from Kind Thranduil's armies in Mirkwood. They are already moving out to mount an attack on the Dwarves. War is upon us."

"We must keep hope, my Lord," the Ranger almost pleaded to Elrond, staring down onto Legolas who groaned softly under his breath as he rolled his head to the side in discomfort and fevered sickness. He then fell still and quiet. Eyes fluttering beneath partially opened eyelids, Legolas again gave a low whimper as though in the heat of some troubled dream. 

"Yes, Aragorn, we must keep hope," the elf-king said sadly, standing to leave for the door, "But hope will not sustain us or Legolas much longer. Against this dark of a poison there is little room for hope…" With that, he turned and trudged to the door to find more medical herbs for the sick prince and softly shut the door behind him. 

After Elrond had disappeared into the palace beyond, Aragorn could only look on silently as his dying friend tossed restlessly in a delirium of fever beside him. Reaching down to rewet the cloth on Legolas' forehead, Aragorn was startled when the elf suddenly began to mumble in his sleep. 

Slurred like a drunkard's, Legolas' words seeped over his bloodless white lips barely louder then a whisper. Bending low over the stricken warrior, Aragorn discerned only part of the faint and frightened murmurs of his feverish friend. 

"No…The dark figure…It is coming for me…Somebody…Please help me…I don't want to die…"

Fading away in his throat, Legolas' unconscious ramblings became a soft and muffled whimper of pain and torment. Feverously tossing his head from side to side atop the sweat dampened pillow, Legolas cringed into a shivering ball as Aragorn tried to place a calming hand on his friend's shoulder. Moaning weakly, he elf held his infected blue arm in pain. 

"Shhh…" soothed Aragorn softly, deeply pained by his friend's inability to escape his misery even in his sleep. Pacing the damp cloth back across Legolas' burning hot brow, he gently took his companion's hand into his own reassuringly. Ice cold were the elf's once strong and warm slender hands. 

_"Rest, my friend," _he whispered into the prince's delicately pointed ear in the Elvish tongue, "_I_ _am here. I won't let anything take you from us…" _

Perhaps unconsciously hearing the man's words, Legolas gave a final uncertain whimper of pain and fell silent and still, falling away into deeper and darker dreams. Heaving a heavy sigh of weariness, Aragorn hung his head tiredly over the dying warrior. 

"Please don't give up yet, Legolas," he begged quietly to his friend's unconscious form, "Too much is at stake for you to give up hope. Please hold on a little longer. You must fight this dark poison as long as you can. Gimli and your cousin, Toreingal, will return soon, and then all will be well again…"

Gently resting Legolas' hand back over the elf's chest, Araorn pushed back from the bed and fell into a nearby wooden chair positioned close beside the prince's bed. Leaning forward in his seat, the Ranger dropped his head into his hands in exhaustion from the last few days' stress, feeling drained and empty with grief for his suffering friend. Staring blankly down at the wooden floorboards of the room, the man listened silently to Legolas' unsteady breathing as it whistled softly between the elf's lips. 

Shutting his eyes against the world, Aragorn let the hypnotic rhythm of Legolas' breathing lull him into a distant state of mind. Leaning back in his seat so that his head hung over the back of the chair, the man became aware of the still quiet of the night that seeped in through a nearby open window of the room. 

How alone he suddenly felt in that darkened room, waiting helplessly to see what lay in Legolas' dim future. Sinking lower in his seat, Araorn prepared for his lonesome vigil awake at his friend's side should Legolas require any aid during the course of the long dark night. Unwilling to leave his companion's side with no one else there to calm or comfort Legolas in his suffering, the faithful man unselfishly took up his post. 

Sitting there in the silence behind a gloomy curtain of darkness that draped the room like a tapestry, Aragorn waited as the elf's chest slowly rose and fell beneath the thin coverlet of the bed. Assessing that the _Athelas_ had finally taken its full effect against the dark poison in the warrior's veins, the trained healer was at least momentarily contented that Legolas' breathing now seemed steadier and deeper then before. 

But Elrond's words remained in his mind like salt in an open wound. The plant was not having as much effect against Eronel's poison as it had only a day before. It was now taking much longer for the plant to show any signs of relieving the sick elf from his throes of pain. The evil venom was quickly becoming stronger and overtaking the valiant warrior prince of Mirkwood. 

As the Ranger thought of this, he became aware of a deepening gloom descending around him. Turning in the chair, Aragorn saw through one of the room's windows the last fleeting glimpse of the pale moon outside disappear behind a dark cloud in the sky. Looking back to the barely distinguishable outline of Legolas laying on the bed behind a wall of inky darkness, he had to wonder if light would ever come again. Because it suddenly seemed to him that hope had become lost in the darkness and was never to be seen again…

~~~~~~~~~

"Oh yes… My time is quickly nearing… There now only remains one more step in my plan. And then I shall be free to cover Middle-Earth in such a shadow of darkness that even the blackest of nights will seem like day to those that quake under my power. My revenge against the Dwarves and Elves will soon be complete."

"For it is now my turn to make my move in this game of chess. And my dearest fool, Prince Legolas, you shall be the first to be moved and sacrificed on this battlefield of pawns…"

Dark laughter then rang out, chilling the very air it moved through. And thus, Eronel began to stretch her potent mind and deadly will from deep within her lonely prison of darkness and hate, preparing to move her pawn into place on the playing board checkered with the crimson of spilt blood and the blackness of despair…. 

~~~~~~~ 

There you go. Like it? Hate it? Just couldn't care much either way it I actually continued with this literary monstrosity that even my mother couldn't love? Whatever category you fall into, give yourself two brownie points for actually surviving that chapter!

Signing out

-LAXgirl 


	5. A Fell Voice in the Dark

OK, contrary to popular belief, I'm still alive! I just got a little side tracked with school and work. Anyway, thanks for all the positive feedback for the last chapter. On that note...

_La KimmyCat: _So you're one of _them _(see pet peeve #2 in profile)! Oh, well... I guess I'll forgive you since you gave me such a flattering review. Thanks a bunch! ^_^

_anonymous: _I've written! I've written! Now you can find out what happens!

_Alfarin: _Aha! Another one of _them... _(Like up top, see pet peeve #2.) Ha! Just joking... Anyway, if you liked the last chapter, you should like this one because it's just as long if not longer... 

_ZeroCool: _Aww, dude, I love you!! Thanks for the positive mention of my story in your own profile bio! You are seriously my new best friend! I'm reading your story as we speak!

_Sky Wolf: _Awww! I'm blushing! You really do love me! You've made my day, seriously!

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Hermione Eveningfall: Good use of the verb 'to pine'! Two brownie points for you, girl! ^_^ But just between you and me... don't get your hopes up too high...*hint hint wink wink nudge nudge know-what-I- mean...* 

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Toni: Thanks...

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Fairylady: Patience, my faithful reader. Patience... *doing a bad imitation of Mr. Miagi from karate kid* Things will start to pick up...

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Spades: You forgot about me!?!?!?! Oh, that hurts! Just joking... Thanks for the review!

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Eck: Thank you. I really needed that. Some of my favorite stories are so well written that when I read them and compare them to my writing, I seriously feel inferior... But your review made me feel better... at least until they come out with new chapters... ^_^ 

So there you go, usual disclaimer: LOTR is not mine and never will be and I just have to learn to accept that... at least that's what my psychologist says...

So enjoy another one of my infamously long chapters!

~~~~~~~~~~

Pain was what finally drug Legolas from out of the dark abyss of unconsciousness. It was a searing, unrelenting pain that the words of no known language could fully describe or encompass. So potent was its strength, it seemed to devour the very hope of ever escaping from its grips. Ripped from his dark and terrifying dreams where the full force of his agony could not follow, Legolas drifted beyond the borders of his misty dream scape back into the realm of consciousness. 

Slowly fading into awareness of body and mind, the elf hovered on the edge of where dreams and reality melded and flowed into one another in an intricate and deceptive mosaic of what is and what exists only in the farthest reaches of the mind. Consciousness had long ago became a distorted concept to Legolas. In his sufferings he had drifted through many shifting shadows of darkness, caused by fever and poison. Time and space had little meaning to him. 

Numerous times he had startled awake in a heavy daze of pain and sweat, to only immediately sink back into a thick muddle of troubled dreams. Several times he thought he had heard a voice speaking to him gently from somewhere beyond the fevered delirium that burned his body. It was strangely familiar but unplaceable, soothing him into another maelstrom of sleep with some bitter taste on his tongue. But he had cared little of this as the bitter taste and gentle but strong voice faded from recollection and memory as he once again fell into a dark void of restless sleep. 

Sluggishly pulling his mind from out of the black desert of unconsciousness, Legolas slid heavy eyelids up from over the gritty surface of his eyes. Blinking slowly in blindness, the first sense to fully return to the disoriented and half conscious elf was the searing pain that laced itself through every sinew and muscle of his left arm and chest until it felt as though his very bones burned with poison and fire. Lethargic and drugged, he could do little more in his stupor then just whimper helplessly in torment and misery.

~It hurts...Make it stop...~ 

Laying in a daze of pain, Legolas fought the overwhelming urge to let himself slip into another bout of tormented sleep. Dark and frightening the nightmares of his fevered mind had been, and he was reluctant to return to them just yet. 

~Why isn't there any light... I can't see... Where am I?~

Immediate darkness met his eyes as he slowly returned to the living realm. It was late and the moon's pale face hung high overhead in the sky. Legolas tried to blink his blurry eyes into focus, but it felt as though cobwebs had been spun in front of his vision. Lucid enough to know he was truly awake and not in another hallucination, the elf clenched his throbbing arm weakly. Focusing on his surroundings he slowly recognized the large bed he lay in and the darkened room in which he had lived for three long and lonely days since falling under the poison coated blade of Gimli. 

Laying helplessly in a daze of pain and sleep, Legolas suddenly felt overwhelmed with a burning heat. Cocooned tightly in the soft bedding of the deep and pillowy bed, the sick elf panted torridly. Feeling suffocated to the point of panic, he weakly kicked the many sheets from his sweat drenched body.

~Get off me!... I need air!~

Salty sweat dripped into his eyes and stung his vision as he peeled the last thin sheet from off of his gaunt body and threw it to the side with disdain. Legolas then flopped back onto the mattress with no strength left to keep himself up. Drenched in this cold sweat, Legolas shivered violently as a gentle breeze blew into the small room through a nearby open window and chilled his exposed damp skin. Too weary and exhausted to pull one of the sheets back over himself, Legolas shuddered with cold. But while he froze, his forehead burned with fever and perspiration continued to dampen his lusterless white skin.

Legolas' labored breathing drowned his hearing with his lungs' torment as he struggled to pull himself away from the brink of unconsciousness. He could feel the sharp, acidy sting of bile biting the back of his throat as his stomach heaved weakly, empty of anything to throw from it. Slowly the retching contractions of his stomach tapered off. Mind numbed by pain and sickness, Legolas looked around him in the moonlit room. It was empty and filled only with the shadows and sounds of the night. 

The elf's heart sank at this, feeling abandoned and alone in his pain and misery. For some reason he had half expected to find someone there by his side. Who he expected to see he could not say, but he thought he faintly remembered some presence at one time or another beside him. There was an chair sitting close beside his bed, but it was empty and cold. 

Settling his fevered head back onto the cool cover of his pillow wearily, Legolas listened passively to the still silence and calm of the deepening night. Loneliness weighted down his heart before the poisoned pain of his arm all of a sudden crept back into his mind with renewed intensity and stole his attention away. It was as if hot needles had suddenly been driven into his flesh, boiling his blood.

~What evil have I committed to deserve this!?~ 

His mind reeled with pain as Eronel's curse exploded into a new threshold of intensity. Legolas could do nothing more then roll to his side in agony with a moan, still clenching his poison seeped limb. Gasping with shock, Legolas shivered with pain and cold, his blood pumping through his arm like liquid fire. 

But through the mind consuming throes of indescribable pain, there came to Legolas' ears the soft whisper of a distant voice like that of one searching for someone who is lost. 

*Legolas... Legolas, my dear prince, where are you?*

It was musical and sad, and seemed to radiate from the very air itself. Female it was in tone. Distracted from his pains by this unexpected voice, Legolas felt strangely compelled to answer although he knew not who called to him. A heavy fog seemed to descend over his eyes in the wake of the unseen woman's call.

"Who's there?" Legolas chocked out from his parched throat over the pain that throbbed in both mind and body. Struggling to sit, Legolas weakly pulled his back up against the delicately carved elven headboard of his bed. Focusing what little strength he had left in his withered body, he strained his sharp and acute elven ears, listening intensely for a reply, half expecting it to have been his fevered imagination that had concocted the mysterious voice. Waiting breathlessly in the tense silence, Legolas felt a chilled shiver pass up his spine. 

*My prince...* sang the female voice, her voice echoing through his skull, coated thick with pity but not answering his inquiry. *How you suffer... Do you not yearn for relief from this torture?*

"Yes," he replied weakly, not quite understanding why he was answering this mysterious voice. It was as if something had stolen his will to resist this melodious voice and disregard all caution or prudence as it pulled him deep into a dreamy trance as he sat listening to his allusive guest. 

*Then come to me... I can relieve you of your torment. Follow my voice. I will end your suffering...* Trailing away, the voice faded from the gravely ill elf's ears and into the distance. 

Whatever magical or hypnotic influence had been woven into the unseen woman's honey laced voice, Legolas slipped to the edge of the bed and slowly lowered himself down onto unsteady feet. His weary heart suddenly yearned for nothing more then to do as the voice bid and follow. Quickly managing to grip a nearby end stand positioned near the head of the wide down bed as he stood to steady himself before he fell to the floor in a heap, the once proud and fearless warrior swayed with vertigo. 

Legolas' breathing came in short raspy intervals as he bit back the pain that coursed through his arm, willing his sagging knees to support his crumpling body. He then staggered forward after finding his balance. In his weakened condition, his legs hardly seemed able to bear his already impossibly light weight, but he did not fall. Driven by some strong and unyielding force that seemed to seize his very mind in its iron grips, Legolas struggled along on unsteady legs. 

Stumbling weakly against the closed wooden door of his room, Legolas leaned heavily against the doorjamb, trying desperately to catch his breath and stop the room from spinning. Gasping air into his oxygen starved lungs like he had just ran an uphill marathon, the elf saw his vision beginning to tunnel from exertion and sickness. The pain in his arm worsened. It took all his strength and willpower not to scream out in pain and collapse to the floor. 

*Legolas...* The voice urged persistently from some distant corner of his mind. *Follow my voice... No more pain...*

Again feeling the inner pull of desperation to follow, the elf saw rather then actually feel or consciously direct a shaking hand out to grip the doorknob beside him. Like an observer to his own life, Legolas watched as his hand turned on its own accord and swing the door out into the pitch dark hallway of Lord Elrond's palace.

*Legolas...Come to me.* 

Like a snake charmer weaving her spell, the voice's musical syllables ensnared the elf-prince's mind and lulled him into a daze of blind obedience. Vision and senses wavering with pain and an unnatural heaviness that seemed to cover everything in a dense fog, Legolas stumbled from out of the room and into the black corridor beyond, unable to regain the will or strength to fight the call of the mysterious woman to follow. And so slipping into the long and dark shadows of the hallway, Legolas' light elvish footsteps faded into the distance like one walking to his doom.

~~~~~

Aragorn stared out into the distance with empty eyes, his thoughts swirling in a confusion of helplessness, regret, anger, desperation, denial and anguish. His listless eyes overlooked the nighttime city of Rivendell. He sat on a cold stone bench set in one of the many sprawling palace gardens, heedless of the early spring chill that soaked through his clothes and into his skin like tiny knives of ice. Winter still hung faintly in the air, too stubborn to relinquish its cold grip on the land just yet. The moon above shined down her pale light, illuminating the earth in a rich glow. 

Terraced to fit into to the mountain landscape, Lord Elrond's gardens were filled with the quiet growth of trees, plants, and flowers year round. Even if it was the dead of winter, something was always to be seen growing there. Whether by gentle coaxing elven hands or magic this feat was achieved, no living mortal could say. In all actuality, Elrond's gardens were more like a well tended forest then a flower covered patch of land. 

Whatever the case, it was one of those elvish quirks that all of the Eldar shared (and Aragorn had always loved): their deep seeded need to be close to something green and growing. Nature was like their life force and their strength. But this came now as almost ironic and cruel to the Man who sat in the Elf-Lord's undying green gardens, pondering life, its mortality and the cruelty of the world. 

The bench that Aragorn sat on had been placed there long ago during the construction of the vast and peaceful gardens close to the edge of a stone pathway that weaved itself through the cultivated soil. On the other side of the pathway, a low stone wall of carefully cut blocks stood. And while Elves in general disliked and tried to avoid masonry or stonework of any kind in their green places, this wall had been built for good reasons. 

Deliberately sectioned off to grant the best overhead, panoramic view of Rivendell and the beautiful valley's many waterfalls and tributaries that ran through it, the palace gardens subsequently grew right on the very edge of the mountain side. A huge drop spiraled downwards fifty feet or more just on the other side of the innocent looking stone wall. It had been built to prevent any unwary guest in Elrond's gardens from falling off the path and into the churning white waters of Rivendell's main river below. The water surged and boiled against its rocky sides behind thick curtains of mist and spray. 

A narrow waterfall rushed somewhere farther down the path, it sitting between the Man and the palace. It was forty feet high or so with a deep and swift river running from where it thundered down into its rocky bed. And while it would be considered a decent sized waterfall by any other standards, it was still considered relatively small compared to some of the other colossal beauties that crashed along the mountain sides of Rivendell. It sat several yards back from the main path in a deep misty glade surrounded on either side by sandy banks that were perfect for mid-summer afternoon outings. 

Aragorn could hear the surging roar of its cascading waters even from the distance he had put between himself and the elven palace. But the sound of its rushing water did little more then further depress him. It only reminded him of happier times when life was sunny and green and full of promise. But those memories now seemed distant and from another world entirely. 

Perhaps, subconsciously, he had wandered to the spot he sat now just so he could find some link to that time, when things had not been so dark and hopeless. But whatever the reason of him choosing that particular place to wallow in despair, he was there now. He needed time alone to think. He needed time to sort out the feelings he held for a dying Elf who he had faced more adventures, and braved more dangers with then twenty Men would ever hope to see in a hundred lifetimes. 

Head held wearily in his hands, Aragorn bent forward like a tree broken in the wind, his bent elbow resting on his thighs. He stared out towards the darkened city through the tangles of dark eyelashes that slightly obscured his view, unable to lift his head from under the immense weight of grief and hopelessness.

~Legolas, my dear friend, why did this have to happen to you? Why you of all people? Why did Gimli have to give you that tainted dagger? It was suppose to represent his friendship to you, but...why did this have to happen? It's not fair that you must suffer like this. I would give my life to help you. But I cannot do anything more then passively sit by and watch you suffer from this evil witch's poison. You have saved my life countless times, and the one time you are in need of me, I can do nothing for you... ~ 

Aragorn could feel tears of frustration beginning to sting his eyes. They were tears that had been threatening to spill for some time now, but still remained in tight check. Aragorn refused to weep for a friend that was still alive and had not yet succumbed to Fate. But his resolve to keep his tried emotions in check was quickly crumbling. He could feel the frustration building in him even in the quiet peace of the gardens until it felt as though he was a moment away from just screaming at the top of his lungs into the night until no air remained in him to scream with. 

~What cruel Fate deemed you to be the one to fall victim to Gimli's tainted blade? Why did Eronel's legacy have to find you as its victim?~ 

So consumed by these unanswerable thoughts, the Ranger did not even notice the soft rustle of cloth in the still night coming up behind him. Aragorn was only finally brought out of his inner turmoil with the fall of a gentle but strong hand on his shoulder. He did not even have to raise his head to know who stood beside him. He could tell by the reassuring squeeze on his shoulder (the same that had comforted him countless time during his life), that Elrond had come to join him in the moonlit palace gardens. 

"Is it not a bit late for a stroll though the garden?" the ancient elf-king asked softly after a moment of silence between the two, the distant crashing of the nearby waterfall making the only sound in the still night. 

"I needed the quiet of the trees to think in," Aragorn replied emotionlessly, still not raising his head, his hair curtaining his downcast face in a shower of semi-curly dark tresses. 

"Amongst the trees, there is little quiet to be found. They are full of voices and words. But you are not an Elf, so your ears are not troubled by their whispers," Elrond said dismissingly, removing his hand from Aragorn's shoulder and coming around to sit beside the clearly distraught man. Taking in the Man with a sideways glance from the corner of his grey eyes, he noted carefully after an uncertain pause, "This is the first time I have seen you away from Legolas' side."

The Elf's words seemed to earn some sign of life from Aragorn as the Man finally hoisted his head up to look at Elrond with grief reddened eyes. "He is worsening, "Aragorn explained in a small voice of helplessness, "He is fading faster then I thought he would. I fear, he has little time left. He has already begun to show signs of hallucinations and the bluish coloring of the poison in his left arm is spreading quicker. It is already beginning to seep onto his chest... Once it reaches his heart, I don't think even Legolas will be able to fight off this witch's poison any longer..." 

"We feared as much from the very beginning, Estel," the Elf-Lord confirmed, speaking gently to the Man he had come to see as one of his own sons and who caused him pain if ever he saw him suffer. "But you said yourself - we cannot give up hope. Gandalf and the others should have reached the valley by now. We must place our hopes in them," Elrond tried to assure. 

Giving a soft snort, Aragorn scoffed, "Hope? What hope is there left to be had? Legolas is slowly dying in a torment of pain. Even I cannot fool myself any longer that he will last much longer against this evil. He will d-" Hanging his head, the man trailed off, letting his unspoken words fester in the air and in their hearts.

"They may return in time," the Elf-king offered hopefully, but with only feeble backing to them. 

"And what if they do not?" Aragorn retorted sharply, totally unaware of the ironic shift of attitudes that had taken place between himself and Elrond from only a few hours prior, "An all out war between Elves and Dwarves is hanging in the balance. If Gandalf and Gimli do not return in time with Eronel's water, then not only do I lose my friend, war will erupt. The fighting between Dwarves and Elves will spread from here to every country in Middle-Earth until there is nothing left."

"I have already sent out a messenger to Mirkwood begging King Thranduil to not make any attacks against the Dwarves just yet. Legolas' father is stubborn and head-strong, but I hope my letter may at least buy us some time to save Legolas' life and advert war. But there is little more we can do at the present. We must wait for Gandalf and the others to return- as painful as that may seem to you right now," Elrond said, looking at the hallowed remains of a grief stricken man. 

There came no reply from Aragorn at this. He only stared into the distance, revealing none of his inner thoughts or feelings. 

"Aragorn, I know you are taking Legolas' illness very hard, but you must begin to look after yourself," Elrond then motioned after a long moment, deep concern seeping from his voice, "I am worried about you. You have not slept or eaten in three days. You can not keep this up. There is nothing more you can do for him. Come what may - it is out of our hands... Come back inside and rest. Legolas will be well tended to in your absence. If it will comfort you enough to take a few hours rest, I will spend the rest of the night at his side until you get some sleep. You look terrible. You will do Legolas no good, if you keep this up. Will you please do this for me?" The underlining plea in Elrond's voice was genuine, and Aragorn did not at first respond. 

~How can he ask me to worry about myself when Legolas is like this- teetering on the very brink of death?... But Elrond is right. There is little more I can do for Legolas... I am useless to him.~

Heaving a weary sigh of emotional exhaustion, and locking eyes with the ageless eyes of his adopted father, Aragorn conceded reluctantly, "As you wish...But I will remain here for a while longer. There is still much I must think about." 

"So be it." 

Standing, with some sense of relief and satisfaction at the Ranger's complience to his request, Elrond cast Aragorn one last worried glance before turning away from the distraught Man towards the stone path that would lead him back to the palace. ~Please, Legolas, you must fight this darkness. I do not know what will become of Aragorn if you were to fall to this dark poison. And I fear what may become of Middle-Earth. Your father already harbors much distrust and animosity towards mortals- especially Dwarves. I am not sure that even if you are restored to health his wrath can be stayed against the Dwarves. But we must try. I will do everything in my power to help you, but your only real hope lies with Gandalf, Gimli, and Toreingal...~ 

Moving down the moonlit path, Elrond's dark outline blended into the darkness and disappeared from Aragorn's view. Following the ghostly form of the Elf-Lord as far as his human eyes would allow in the dim twilight, the empty man finally looked away and returned his wandering eyes out towards the sleeping city of Rivendell. 

Falling out of thought, Aragorn let his mind drift, too weary to rail the images and memories that slowly floated past his mind's eye. As he sat there on his seat of cold and impersonal stone bench, he suddenly became aware of just how tired he really was. At first he had relented to Elrond's suggestion of rest only to satisfy the elf and get him to leave him in peace. But now, he was truly beginning to feel the heavy burden of worry and stress from Legolas' suffering that he had been carrying for so long a time. And while he felt some twinge of guilt at the thought of restful sleep while his friend continued to be haunted even in his dreams, Aragorn knew he needed rest, or he would most likely fall asleep right at Legolas' side from exhaustion. 

Making up his mind, the Man stood from the garden bench. Straightening his stiff knees, Aragorn became painfully aware of the stinging rush of blood through his limbs as he stretched his legs and back. The Ranger now mentally chided himself for sitting so long on the cold stone bench and allowing his muscles to stiffen so. ~I will rest tonight and then return to Legolas in the morning.~

Turning down the path that lead to Elrond's grand palace, Aragorn's tired ears listened idly to the growing roar of the garden's waterfall as he neared the narrow stone bridge that spanned over the fall's tributary. Slowly treading over the stone path underfoot, Aragorn hunched his shoulders with fatigue. ~Yes, sleep does sound like a good idea...~

Rounding the last winding bend of the garden's stone walkway, he could begin to see the faint outline of the cascading water through the trees' leafy boughs. On his tired face, he could already feel the fine, misty spray that was kicked up from the base of the churning falls- an almost refreshing experience to the emotionally and physically fatigued man. 

Nearing the foot of the arched stone bridge that would lead him to the palace's back gate, Aragorn was momentarily startled as he noticed the distant outline of a white garbed figure standing in the center of the causeway on the very edge, teetering precariously over the swiftly churning water ten feet below. The man seemed to care little for caution and continued to stare down into the foaming waters below with his head turned away from Aragorn, hiding his face. It almost seemed as though he was lost in deep thought. The stranger's skin seemed to literally glow in the pale moonlight that shimmered down into the waterfall glade through the leafy canopy of the surrounding trees, and Aragorn thought for a minute he was looking at a ghost. 

Overcome with curiosity, the Man continued on towards the bridge. As he neared closer, Aragorn could make out more of the figure's outline. From a distance of fifty feet or more, he could distinguish a flowing mane of slightly disarranged blond hair, the color of a pale, early morning dawn. Robbed in a long, loose tunic of pure white with darker leggings, the figure's fair skin seemed to give off a luminous glow, as if clothed in light itself, contesting without a doubt a claim to being of Eldar descent. But the glow seemed dimmed and waning. 

~Odd...Who would be out at this time of night?...~

Moving with almost inhuman stealth to steal closer to the mysterious figure unnoticed, Aragorn hid himself in the long shadows of the garden walkway, slightly off to the side of the stone path. Creeping from shadow to shadow quietly, but not too deliberately so as to seem like a stalker, he neared the foot of the bridge. Aragorn was about to call out a late night greeting to this unanticipated companion in Elrond's gardens, when a knot of fear suddenly chocked off any words he might have been about to say dead in his throat.

~Legolas?!~ 

There swaying slightly from side to side as if in a daze, the Elf-prince stared down into the swirling waters below. Now at the very foot of the arched stone bridge, Aragorn could clearly see his friend's lips quivering, as though muttering under his breath. His blue eyes stared into the swirling black waters below, distant and cold like Death's. 

"Legolas!" Aragorn cried out loudly over the roar of the nearby waterfall, his voice cracking in surprise. 

Forgetting all his weariness and exhaustion in that second, Aragorn hastened his steps onto the delicately arched stone bridge, deeply disturbed by what could have possibly drawn the sick warrior from his bed and into the dead of night. Dread and apprehension seized his stomach as he rushed towards the pale, swaying form of his friend standing there on the edge of the bridge, teetering over a broiling river of water and rocks. Perhaps it was the foreboding twinge in his stomach, but Aragorn knew he needed to reach his friend immediately. There was something very wrong about this scene. 

~By the Havens, what is he doing out here!? He is too ill to be walking around like this. I should have never left his side...~ 

The Elf did not respond to Aragorn's call, but merely continued to stare down into the churning black rapids below, all the while mouthing inaudible words from behind deathly white lips. So close to the side of the bridge, Legolas' bare toes actually hung over the edge and out into the thin air above the dark moving river.

To Aragorn, it felt as though the world had suddenly stopped turning and every step he took seemed to last a lifetime as he sped towards his friend. He could not remember a time when he had pushed so much effort and desperation into his legs, or knew so much raw fear or dread. 

But then, when Aragorn was within only five paces of Legolas and it seemed as though he would reach him in time and hope had rising in his heart, whatever strength that had been holding the elf aloft for so long in his weakened state seemed to suddenly be cut off from around his body. Falling like a marionette with its strings severed, Legolas toppled forward, his legs drooping out from under him as he slowly pitched head first towards the churning river below. 

"No! Legolas!" he screamed in a frenzy of panic and fear as he shot out a groping hand to the toppling elf. Making one last desperate attempt to save Legolas from a death of drowning, Aragorn dived for him. Flying through the air like an arrow, hands outstretched to catch the tumbling elf, the Ranger made a desperate grab for Legolas' falling body. 

For a split second, Aragorn felt his fingertip lightly grazing the sleeve of Legolas' shirt just as the elf came almost parallel with the water below. But before he could clasp hold and pull his friend back to safety, Aragorn could only watch in sickened horror as Legolas fell out of his reach by only a hair's width. 

~No! Legolas! Legolas!!~ 

Tipping forward towards the dark waters far below, Legolas continued to fall. Watching his friend falling headfirst into a churning void of darkness, Aragorn could only revel in how tauntingly slow the elf seemed to fall. 

And it seemed to Aragorn as Legolas fell so slow and with such direct and deadly purpose, that the world had ground to a halt just so it could cruelly illustrate how insanely close he had come to saving Legolas, but had ultimately failed....

~~~~

Several minutes before...

*Come to me, Legolas... I can stop the pain. Come to me...Follow my voice*

Stumbling blindly after the voice that called to him, Legolas fought back the pain and dizziness that assailed his already weakened body. A heavy fog veiled his eyes. 

Somewhere deep within his clouded mind, Legolas knew by all rights he should have dropped to the floor from sheer exhaustion long ago, but for whatever reason had not and had kept going. But this mystery meant little to him as he struggled to hurry after the soft and luring voice of this unnamed and unseen woman. All that his fevered and tormented mind could comprehend was her seductive promise of an escape from the pain and endless torment that burned his arm. 

It was as if he was being pulled by a giant magnet. The elf's body felt strangely drawn to her, his feeble mind unable to tear itself away from his desperate quest to find the one that declared salvation from the dark agony of poison. . 

The pain was blinding. The misery unbearable. His suffering unrelenting. Legolas wasn't sure how much longer he could stand the torment, as though his mind was a mere heartbeat away from snapping. 

The feathery words continued to summon Legolas forward from some unknown distance, her voice ringing through his mind like a thought itself. 

*Legolas... I can stop the pain and heal you from this poison...*

"Wh-who are you?" begged the elf in a small voice of pain as his feet carried his shivering body onward to unknown doom. Blind to the world around him, Legolas stumbled forward in a dark haze of obscurity. Willing his sluggish brain to function, Legolas asked persistently, "H-how do your know of the poison? Can you really heal me?"

*I have known of you plight for some time now. I have been watching you and waiting for the right moment to show myself...* whispered the woman's voice from the back of his mind. 

"And why only now do you come forward to offer me assistance in escaping this curse?" Legolas ventured with growing curiously. 

*Because the playing field is now set for the next move...* 

The weak and ill warrior-prince's confused mind churned with a storm of questions from this odd reply. ~What could she possibly mean by that?~ he wondered. 

Battling the oppressing heaviness that weighed on his mind and body, Legolas pried himself out of the consuming darkness that hovered on the edge of his conscious. As Legolas' thoughts cleared, he could feel the fogginess slowly dissipating. And then suddenly, he broke free from the darkness and back into the light. 

~What am I doing? Where am I? What is going on? How can I hear this woman in my head? I know Galadriel and some of the other high Elves have the ability to speak with mere thoughts, but who would have come to me like this?~

Alarm pierced his heart. Immediately, Legolas tried to naturally stop his slow but direct staggering march. But the elf was immediately seized by fear as he found his body refused to respond to his will. Beside the faltering rise and fall of his tired feet, Legolas could not move or even flinch any muscle. 

~What is going on! I cannot stop! What magic is at work here?!~ his mind spun as he desperately tried to regain control of his body. But the elf's impaired and sluggish feet did not even break stride in their slowly rhythmic beat, carting his paralyzed body away into the dark cloud of blackness that obscured his vision and senses. 

And then, through the alarm and startling realization of his unnatural situation, Legolas became aware of a soft tinkle of mirthful laughter in his head that slowly grew in his brain until it felt as though not even the room to think remained. The laughter was twisted and tainted with malice and sadistic enjoyment, a mockery of its inclination as a sign of happiness. Legolas instantly recognized the sound as belonging to the mysterious female voice that had lured him from his bed. 

* Heh heh heh... My little prince, I can hear your thoughts. Who am I, you wonder... Ah, my little pawn, you already know that answer. You know who I am. You have already seen me in your dreams...or should I say your nightmares, in the form of a dark figure...* 

Dawning realization hit the poison-dizzied elf harder then a direct blow to the face. 

"Eronel..." Legolas hissed between his teeth as though the very syllables left a bad taste festering on his tongue, "I should have known." Hot anger rose in the elf with this epiphany, not at the witch, but at himself. 

~How did I not see this? How could I let myself be taken for such a fool and be deceived so easily?!~

*Yes...You are a fool aren't you? Who did you think you were going to find calling to you? Galadriel? Ha ha! No...You shall soon find that I am no Galadriel. She is but a peon compared to me.*

"Watch your tongue, witch," Legolas warned dangerously at her careless mockery of the fair elven Lady of the Woods. His feet still refused to heed his desperate attempts to regain control as he staggered ever onward through a lightless void of nothing.

Another round of evil laughter rang through his mind at this. *And what would this little elf do to convince me to heed these threats?* she taunted maliciously. 

"I know a certain Dwarf that would make you see the error of your vile words against the Lady with the blade of his axe," Legolas countered. 

*Do you mean the same dwarf that came in search of the enchanted water that guards the entrance to my prison?* Eronel's voice echoed through the Legolas' skull almost indifferently, parrying his words skillfully. The enslaved elf was caught off guard by this, his stomach dropping by the dark tone the witch's voice had taken. Chuckling in her ghostly disembodied voice, Eronel elaborated. *I have already met this dwarf friend of yours, Gimli. And let me tell you this, he fell under my influence even easier then you did... And while he may have escaped me for the moment, he will return to me very soon. His hope in your precious 'cure' will soon prove utterly useless against my poison...*

"You lie"

*Do I? How do you know if I do or not?*

Legolas had no response to this, doubt had stolen his certainty by the unseen witch's mind games. Intense worry for the Dwarf's welfare overtook him. ~What has happened to Gimli? Surely he would not have fallen under this witch's power as easily as I have...~

"What have you done to Gimli and the others?" Legolas demanded. 

*Nothing...for now* Eronel answered, entertaining the elf's questions with amusement. 

"Where are you taking me?" the elf then asked, staring uselessly ahead of him through the inky blackness that covered his eyes like a blindfold as he stumbled forward, guided helplessly by Eronel's power. 

*Where indeed...* the witch mused with an evil chuckle in Legolas' head *You will find out very soon... But tell me first, how do you like the darkness that I have sent to keep you company? For it has been _my_ only companion all these centuries in this dark prison I was sealed in. Soon I will cover all of Middle-Earth in the same darkness I have had to suffer in for so long... And then my revenge against all Elves and Dwarves will be complete for them sealing me in this wretched gloom and isolation... For three thousand years I have waited patiently in this prison, plotting my revenge. And then, not too long ago, I felt the ancient dagger of that cursed Dwarf that had wounded and imprisoned me here disturbed. And I knew the time had finally come for me to make my move...*

"But how can you be speaking and controlling me from such a distance if you are still trapped in your cave?" Legolas wondered incredulously. 

*You were wounded on the same blade that cut me. The 'poison' that has sat idle for so many years on the edge of that horrible little Dwarf's knife and that now flows through your veins is still a part of me. It connects you and I... Binding you to me, and making you my slave...*

"I am bound, nor slave to no one."

*We shall see...*

"And just how do you plan to exact your revenge against the Dwarves and Elves?" Legolas then inquired, frantically desperate to find out all he could about Eronel's evil plot, "With what device do you plan to do this when you are still locked away in your dark hole," he added with underlying smugness, pointing out a possible problem to the witch's plan. 

Again the dark elven sorceress chuckled, the notes of her voice dripping with dark intentions and schemes. 

*I plan on using you, my prince...* Eronel whispered matter-of-factly in her icy voice.

Legolas' heart froze for a second, fear seizing his mind in its grip. "What do you mean?"

*With your death, war will erupt between the races of both my enemies. Where once an brief, but effective, alliance existed between the Mountain Dwellers and the Eldar, death and hatred will flourish...Although the two races need little of my influence anymore to fuel the mistrust that has grown between each other. I know what hangs in the balance...*

"I do not plan on dying anytime soon, Eronel. I have faith that my friends will return with the very water that keeps you locked in your black prison. And then I will rid your poison from my body..." the weak and staggering elf said with deep conviction and almost as a promise. 

"Oh, but my dear prince, as I have already told your friend the dwarf; while the enchanted water keeps me trapped in this cave, it will not save you. You are doomed. Doomed. And all because of that Dwarf you call 'friend.' It is because of him you must suffer so. And it is because of him all of Middle-Earth will fall to its knees before me and quake under my power. It is almost poetic justice that a Dwarf and Elf should be the ones to play the pawns in my game of revenge* 

"Gimli and I will not play the part of your pawns," Legolas retorted defiantly, "Do not try to fool me with your twisted words. I do call Gimli my friend because that is what he is - he is an elfellon, an elf-friend. You cannot turn me against him." 

* Oh, but you are already my pawns. And you are already playing your roles...* Eronel laughed heartily at the enslaved elf that was driven ever forward through the darkness by her will. And then as if mulling over Legolas' speech a little more, she burst out into fresh laughter that chilled the sick elf's very blood. *Ha ha! Elfellon! Elfellon indeed! Oh, my little prince, you will think twice about giving your trust and friendship to a Dwarf after I am through...* 

"What are you planning to do?" Legolas demanded through gritted teeth, becoming more agitated by the witch's taunts and vague words with every passing moment, her voice raking his nerves and patience like iron claws. His body still would not answer his desperate demands to stop. 

*Would you like to see how you will be entertaining me tonight?* she asked then with almost innocent curiosity, but tainted with her belied enjoyment of the power she held over the Elf-prince. 

At her words, it seemed as though the blackness that blinded Legolas slowly began to dissipate from over his eyes, like smoke being blown away in the wind. Blinking in a groggy daze, Legolas looked around him, his head suddenly light and dizzied. His feet still carried his drugged body onwards, regardless that some of Eronel's power had been lifted from him. 

~Where am I?~

As the weak and staggering warrior pressed forward and struggled to figure out where his misguided feet had carried him, he suddenly became aware of the faint murmur of voices radiating through the air - They were the soft whispers of Nature. 

Trying to clear the fog from his heavy eyes, Legolas suddenly became aware of the buffeting caress of a misty spray upon his face. Aroused more from out of his stupor by this exhilerating cool air, the elf blinked rapidly, focusing on his surroundings. 

What he saw momentarily startled and confused him. Around him stood ancient trees, their thick canopies hanging like a dark moth-bitten blanket against a star filled sea of black high overhead. The dim lights shining out from the elven palace shined through the carefully tended shrubs and plants behind him. The soft murmur of the trees' organic tongue sounded in Legolas' ears. He knew these voices. He had spoken with these living pillars of wood before. He was deep within the palace gardens of Lord Elrond. Panic churned his stomach as his unsteady feet staggered down the moonlit stone pathway. 

~How did I get here? Why did Eronel lead me here of all places? There is nothing in these gardens except trees and flowers.~

*Oh, there are some other things in this place...* Eronel's voice suddenly echoed from the depths of Legolas' mind, startling him. 

"What are you going to do?" the elf demanded with as much force in his words as he could muster, trying to sound brave. But belied fear gave his voice a higher pitch then what could be passed as convincing. 

There came no answer from the witch as Legolas' feet turned towards the left and bore him down a side path that lead towards the mountainside boundary of the gardens, his weak body driven by Eronel's unrelenting and unwielding power. It took a minute for the exhausted elf to orient himself, but he began to recognize the strangely familiar path. He knew now where he was being taken. 

In the near distance, the gurgling roar of the garden's main waterfall crashed in Legolas' ears. Stumbling weakly in his involuntary march, Legolas felt the cold stab of fear in his heart. 

~Have to fight her...Have to fight. Can't let her win...~ 

Struggling with every ouch of willpower in him, Legolas tried to regain control of his own body, tried to rid the witch's evil laugh from his head, tried to stop himself from whatever Eronel planned to do with him, and as all his efforts proved utterly useless, tried to form some semblance of words in his throat to call out in a last ditch effort for help. But it was as if some strange force had constricted itself around his neck, cutting off any shouts for help from being voiced. The enslaved elf could do nothing more then just helplessly watch as the garden waterfall drew nearer with every staggering step beneath him, the arched stone bridge that spanned the small but deep river running from its base growing ever larger. 

*Such a beautiful night...* Eronel noted softly in Legolas' head as he mentally battled with the dark power that paralyzed and guided his body. He could almost picture a cruel smile grinning evilly in his mind's eye as she taunted his struggles but not even acknowledging them. 

"I will not let you win, Eronel!" Legolas snarled defiantly, straining his muscles and will against the witch's cold invisible grasp that ensnared both body and mind. 

The waterfall's hollow crashes roared off to Legolas' left. He could now feel the cold, slippery surface of the foot stones of the bridge against the soles of his bare feet, the sharp chill jolting Legolas into a new stage of panic. With slow and deadly directiveness, Legolas began to mount the stone causeway. 

Reaching the highest point of the rounded bridge, Legolas' feet pivoted sharply to the right so that the elf's back was turned to the thundering falls behind him. And then, with one last half-step he was brought to the very edge of the bridge, the churning black water of the small river far below him. Frozen like a lifeless statue, Legolas teetered precariously on the edge of a watery grave. He now felt a sinking pit in his stomach as he began to understand just what the witch planned to do with him.

~Fight her! Fight her! You cannot let her win!~

*Heh heh heh.. Oh, my little prince, your struggles are useless, but quite amusing all the same. I have not had so much merriment for quite a long time. But I am afraid our fun together must come to an end. I do not have time to play with you anymore. I still have much yet to prepare for...*

Staring into the swirling river below with distant blue eyes, Legolas felt a great heaviness descending upon his body, an icy grip tightening around his mind. It was as is some engulfing power was slowly wrapping an invisible net around the young elf-warrior, cutting air from his lungs, and thought from his mind. 

~No! I cannot let her win! No!~

Pain suddenly exploded through Legolas' left arm through all the poison blued skin. But even the privilege of crying out in shock was stolen from the elf by the invisible power that ensnared and wrapped itself around him, strangling off any sound in his throat, and froze his body in place. 

And then, just when Legolas thought he could bare no more of the witch's excruciating pain, it suddenly stopped. 

It was as if his body had suddenly been cast into a pit of darkness. His body felt weightless as the sensation of falling overcame him, the sudden painlessness of this black void numbing his senses and freezing his mind. No sound could be formed in his paralyzed mouth as he felt his body slowly tipping forward towards the foaming waters below that churned and raged around large rocks jutting from the turbulent water's surface. 

Blackness clouded his vision as Legolas felt himself falling, falling so slow it that every second seemed to last a lifetime. Time became meaningless as the world paused and froze in that second. As he fell forward in a daze of fever and sickness, the elf thought that he saw his life playing slowly in his mind's eye; green and sunny memories of Mirkwood's fields and forests, the flash of a hundred swords in the countless wars and battles he had partaken in, and an endless blur of faces of all those he had known and loved during his countless years of life. 

And as the swirling black waters rushed up to meet him, Legolas suddenly realized how surprisingly peaceful it all seemed, so surreal and fluid as though he was merely slipping away into sleep. 

As the sinking darkness claimed the elf in its inky embrace, Legolas let himself be taken by the black painless void. And then there was nothing… 

~~~~~ 

TBC...

~~~~~

Hmmm... the plot thickens...kind of. At least its starting to pick up a bit. I have a tendency to let the story develop slowly instead of hurrying it, so kudos to all those who are bearing with the pace. Anyway, until next chapter,

I'm LAXgirl, signing out.


	6. Abandonment

Aragorn's heart seized into a dead lump in his chest as he watched Legolas slowly tumble like a rag doll through the air towards the churning river below. Watching in horrified disbelief, Aragorn's mind refused to acknowledge anything other then the Elf's pale, sickly form falling against the backdrop of the still black night. 

~No...Legolas! By the Valar, NO!!~ 

Driven by the surging flow of adrenaline that coursed through his veins, Aragorn's primitive instincts suddenly kicked in. Springing like a coil, he dove for Legolas. Not thinking at all for his own safety, Aragorn fell to the edge of the stone bridge, his body hanging half off the side as he grappled for a hold on the falling Elf's lithe body. 

Moving with inhuman speed, Aragorn managed to scoop an arm under the Elf's just before he fell out of reach, catching Legolas by the armpit. Clasping the unconscious warrior tight across the chest to ensure his hold, the Man felt the pull of Legolas' weight along the muscles of his arm and shoulder. But gravity refused to relinquish its prey so easily just yet. 

Aragorn stifled a cry and grit his teeth defiantly as Legolas' limp body snapped like a whip in the air against the restraint of his arm, almost jarring his shoulder right out of its socket. But his hold was strong and did not break. He refused to let Legolas slip from his grasp. The man's strained muscles screamed in protest as the Elf hung like dead weight, his body swinging gently from side to side in the air, and the waters foaming angrily far below. Aragorn could feel his toes' grip on the slippery flagstones behind him failing. The knuckles of his free hand were slowly turning white in their death grip on the edge to keep himself from falling. 

Knowing he could not hold Legolas much longer as he was, teetering there on the edge of oblivion, Aragorn ignored the tearing pain in his shoulder and quickly heaved back, pulling Legolas up with him. Legolas' feet bumped lifelessly against the bridge's side as he was brought up. Dragging the unconscious Elf-prince up over the rim of the bridge with the last of his strength, Aragorn fell back from the edge. Crashing into a tangled heap of limbs, the Ranger grunted as Legolas' body landed on his chest, knocking the air from his lungs with a loud 'Whoof!'

"Legolas! Legolas, talk to me!" Aragorn cried, catching his breath quickly. Sitting up he cradled the inert body in his arms. The Elf's head hung over the Ranger's bent elbow dramatically. His pale, upturned face shined dully in the waning moonlit. Legolas' face was screwed up in pain, his eyebrows knotted together in the middle of his forehead. His long slender fingers were weakly clenching his throbbing left arm, the bluish skin shining like black ice in the faint light of the palace gardens. The raspy intake of the sick warrior's labored breathing blistered Aragorn's ears as he listened to Legolas struggling for breath. A soft whimper of protest sounded deep within Legolas' throat as Aragorn shifted the Elf's slack body in his arms to free one of his hands. 

~By the Valar... Why did I leave him? This is all my fault...~

Pressing the back of his hand against Legolas' burning hot forehead, Aragorn felt his heart jump to the back of his throat as the archer's eyes fluttered weakly open at his touch. Another heart-retching moan broke from the Elf's colorless lips and echoed away into the night as he rolled his head feverishly to the side in the crook of Aragorn's arm. 

"Legolas! Legolas, can you hear me?" he called anxiously, swiping a mass of tangled blond hair away from his friend's sweat streaked face. 

Blinking slowly, Legolas stared up at the man with a distant look in his listless, pain-glazed eyes. "Aragorn...?" he finally croaked out just above a whisper. Teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, the poisoned warrior's heavy eyelids began to droop low, threatening to slide shut. 

"What happened? Why did you leave the palace? You're too sick to be outside in the middle of the night! What are you doing out here?" the Man demanded in a shrill voice of near hysteria. His body trembled with the adrenaline and worry that still pumped through his blood from Legolas' rescue. Seeing Legolas drifting off, Aragorn gave a gentle but deliberate shake to keep the Elf awake. Aragorn watched as Legolas slowly cracked open a set of glassy gray eyes and looked up at him. 

"Where is she...?" The words seeped like thick tar over the archer's lips. 

"Where is who?" 

"Eronel...," Legolas slurred. "She...She called to me. I followed her. She said...she said she could make the pain go away, but...but..." The Elf's incoherent rambles trailed off as panic suddenly flared in his eyes. Bolting upright, Legolas tried to sit on his own power but immediately withered back into Aragorn's waiting arms, too weak to hold himself up right. 

"Legolas! Legolas, calm down. It's okay. You're safe now," the Ranger soothed, trying to keep the Elf from straining himself any further in his already dangerously weak and vulnerable condition. 

Locking his blurry, unfocused eyes with Aragorn's, Legolas bit back the pain that coursed through his entire left arm. "No... Aragorn, listen to me," Legolas pleaded in a weak, raspy whisper, "It was Eronel. She was the one that called me here... I cannot let her win. She...She is plotting to somehow be released. The Dwarves and Elves cannot go to war... That's what she wants... I'm a pawn. Her pawn… Please, don't let me fall... It's so dark and cold..." Working himself into a fevered frenzy, the Elf clutched at Aragorn's tunic desperately, as if trying to find something solid to latch onto. "Please, Aragorn... I must warn Gimli... we're pawns. Nothing but pawns... Eronel... war... Please...don't let me fall... so cold." Crying out suddenly, Legolas' body violently arched and spasmed in Aragorn's arms as a new wave of searing pain exploded through the poison-spread length of his arm, cutting off any more words from his mouth. Driven onto the brink of unconsciousness by his throes, Legolas lay helpless as burning pain washed through his limb and seized his lungs and heart in its paralyzing grip.

"Legolas! Hold on!" Aragorn cried in panicked alarm, quickly scooped the shivering Elf up into his arms. Sliding one hand under Legolas' back and the other beneath his knees, Aragorn hoisted the dying warrior's utterly limp body off the cold stone bridge. He knew he couldn't waste anymore time. He knew he had to find Legolas help, and fast. ~I have to find Elrond. He will know what to do...~

Legolas' weak moans of pain were muffled into Aragorn's shirt as he was swiftly born away into the night. Jogging as fast as he could without jarring Legolas too badly, the man sped towards the distant lights of the elven palace shining dimly through the dense foliage of the trees. The lights flickered in and out of sight with every twist and turn of the path. They seemed to taunt Aragorn as he hurried down the path with his fevered friend held protectively in his arms. They were like beacons of light in a sea of black, promising the safety of land, but too far away to be reached by the drowning soul that was futilely swimming against the current to reach them. 

~Why did I leave him? Why did I not stay by his side? If I had been there, I could have stopped him. This is all my fault. All my fault... But how could he have gotten this far from the palace in his condition? The last time he was even able to stand was when I helped him walk out on the balcony the day before. He has been in a deep fever ever since... This is not good. He is hearing voices again. Only now he thinks it was Eronel calling to him. The hallucinations are worsening. He is actually acting upon them he thinks they are so real...~

Cold fear knotted the Ranger's stomach into a coil of dread. Time was running out for his once proud and lighthearted elven friend. 

As he ran headlong through the dark, moonlit gardens at break-neck speeds, Aragorn could finally make out in the distance the faint outline of the palace drawing nearer. Pushing more effort into his stinging legs, Aragorn ignored the burning in his lungs and the cramp between his ribs and desperately sprinted the remaining distance that separated him and possibly Legolas' only hope. 

Bounding up a set of stone steps that led into the rear of the palace two at a time, Aragorn exploded from out of the forest and into the bright moonlight that flooded the courtyard beyond the back gate. As he crashed into the open, the Man managed to startle two guards patrolling the rear area of the palace. 

"Who goes there!" one shouted as he wheeled around to the source of the noise. His stern, booming voice rang out through the still night like canon fire. Squinting at Aragorn suspiciously standing there in the gloomy shadows of the night and holding an odd shaped bundle in his arms, the guards hastened towards the mysterious stranger, swords drawn. 

Ignoring their unspoken threat, Aragorn called out in undaunted urgency, "Quick! Get Lord Elrond! His healing powers are needed immediately!"

Meeting him halfway across the courtyard, the two uniformed guards sidled up beside the Man. "Aragorn? Is that you?" he heard one of the guards call out in surprise as he came more into the light. Aragorn quickly recognized the Elf as being, Glorfindel. The fair-skinned, golden-haired Elf was one of Aragorn's oldest acquaintances in Rivendell and most trusted friends.

Immediately sheathing his sword (and motioning for the other nondescript guard to do so as well), Glorfindel cast a curious glance first at the sweaty, brow-beaten Man who had burst from the gardens in the middle of the night in such a startling fashion, and then another at the dangling form draped in his arms. Surprise lit on Glorfindel's fair elven face when he noticed what the Ranger carried was a limp body. "My Lord, what's happened? Who is that?" the Elf cried in alarm, taking a step closer, "Is that Lord Legolas? What is he doing out here at this time of night? Is he not ill?"

As if in answer to the mention of his name, Legolas cried out weakly in a broken moan of pain. The hollow sound echoed away into the lonely night. Whimpering in a fevered delirium, the poison-riddled archer lolled his head sluggishly into Aragorn's chest and slowly drifted back into the sweet, black embrace of unconsciousness. Limp as a rag, the Elf-prince hung lifelessly in his friend's arms, his sheet-white skin glowing like death in the pale moonlight. Legolas' short, shallow gasps for air rattled in his lungs like dead leaves in the wind. 

~I must get him inside quickly... He will not last much longer if I do not get him indoors where it is warm~

Unable to spare the precious seconds needed to explain things, Aragorn hurriedly shoved past the two in the direction of the palace. Glancing back over his shoulder, he shouted with the clear note of fear and anxiety in his voice, "You must find Lord Elrond for me! Tell him Legolas is in desperate need of his healing abilities. Tell him he must hurry!" 

"Yes, my Lord!" he heard Glorfindel reply obediently. Turning on their heels, Glorfindel and his companion sped off silently into the night, intent on locating their healer-king. 

Disappearing into the dark, cavernous body of the palace, Aragorn sprinted through the hallways painted with the gloomy shadows of the night. Not caring if his heavy footfalls woke the entire population of Rivendell, he thundered down the halls.

Finally reaching the guest wing of the palace, Aragorn burst through the open door of Legolas' room. Quickly sweeping across the room in three great strides to the side of the bed, Aragorn gently lowered the Elf down into the soft downy sheets. Rolling to his side in pain, Legolas immediately curled into a shivering ball, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, as he clutched his poisoned arm in excruciating agony. His blood and flesh burned like an unsquelchable fire. Sweat pored off his forehead and down his neck, soaking his skin in a shiny film. Screaming in a choked off voice, the thrashing Elf recoiled under Aragorn's touch as the Man bent to calm him. 

"Hurts...," Legolas whimpered in his sleep, "Make it stop... Please... make it stop..."

At a loss for how to help his friend, Aragorn rewet a discarded rag he found lying on the edge of the bed in the bowl of water sitting on a nearby end table and pressed it against Legolas' fever ravaged brow. Mopping the cool, damp cloth across the dying warrior's face, Aragorn felt panic beginning to knot his stomach. 

~I must get Legolas help. He is beyond any aid I could possibly offer him. I must find Elrond. He will know what to do... But where is he?! Legolas cannot hold on much longer~ 

While Aragorn would have been considered a skilled healer by any Man or Elf; versed in an endless litany of herbs, roots, and plants that could be mashed, ground, or brewed into almost any potion, tonic, elixir, or drought having some kind of positive medical use, he felt utterly helpless and lost. Nothing from his vast repertoire of antidotes, remedies, or medicines seemed even remotely capable of counteracting or measuring anywhere in power on the same scale as the sorceress evil poison that flowed through Legolas' veins, slowly killing him. Blinded by his own sense of inadequacy and failure as a healer and friend, Aragorn could think of nothing to do for the Elf. Panic had frozen his mind. 

Searching the room frantically with his eyes for anything that might help Legolas until Elrond arrived, Aragorn finally noticed a small wrapped bundle sitting on the edge of the bed's night stand. Recognizing it as an elven medicine pouch, the Ranger quickly grabbed the leather drawstring bag. Retching it open, he found several dried brown leaves inside.

~Athelas!~ 

His heart skipped a beat, recalling how Elrond has used the same herb to stave off the most violent effects of Eronel's poison earlier. Forcing his locked mind to work, Aragorn quickly remembered the plant's qualities and attributes. Is was an anti-venom and helped slow and counteract many poisons. He had used the very same plant to slow the poison in Frodo years before when the Hobbit had been stabbed in the middle of the night by a Morgul blade. It had worked once, it had to work again...

Quickly pinching two leaves off from the rest, the Man bent over Legolas' gaunt and trembling form. Shoving the leaves past Legolas' bloodless lips, Aragorn deftly massaged the Elf's throat until he unwillingly swallowed them. He had to hold down Legolas' weak struggles as the sick warrior coughed and gagged on the bitter herb. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the Elf's rigid and stiff muscles slowly relaxed as the Athelas took effect. The searing, mind-consuming pain finally began to taper away into a numbed ache. With a sigh, Legolas withered from exhaustion into the deep pillows of the bed. His body lay still, the only movement coming from his chest as it rose and fell in a slow, broken rhythm. 

Looking at Legolas laying there in such a pitiful and fallen state, a sudden surge of anger swelled in Aragorn's chest. Legolas didn't deserve to have been poisoned. He was one of the few people in Middle-Earth that truly did not deserve to die like this. He had risked his own life countless times and saved the lives of so many others, how could Fate have rewarded him like this? How could such a proud and fearless Elf have fallen in such a random sequence of events? How could such a tiny, insignificant cut have doomed this fair, beautiful, noble warrior to such a painful and hopeless end? 

Life was cruel. Cruel and unfair.

Pushing these thoughts from head, Aragorn knew he could not longer wait for Glorfindel to find Elrond. He had to find him himself. Time was running out. 

"Legolas? Legolas, can you hear me?" His gentle call slowly summoned the dazed Elf back from the darkness as he sat on the edge of the bed and looked into Legolas' crumpled face. "I have to find Elrond. You have to hold on until I come back. I will be back soon. Just hold on for me."

The man was about to stand and rush off to find his foster father but was stopped when Legolas' eyes slowly opened and gazed into his soul with their deep, pain filled cerulean depths. 

"Aragorn...?" he chocked out in a whisper, his bleary eyes unfocused and glazed with pain. 

"Hold on, Legolas. I am going to get help."

"Aragorn, wait..." the Elf pleaded, reaching out a hand to his friend. His words came in halting intervals as he struggled to sound coherent. "Please, I must warn Gimli... Eronel is planning something... We're pawns. The Dwarves and Elves cannot go to war... She...She tried to kill me to start it... Please, do not let me fall. Eronel cannot win..."

Taking Legolas' proffered ice cold hand into his own, Aragorn forced a reassuring, unfelt smile onto his face and said, "Do not worry, my friend. I will not let you fall. You are safe. Eronel can do nothing to you. She is locked far away in her cave. She cannot harm you or anyone else. Gimli is already coming back with the enchanted water. You'll see. We will cure you of this poison and all will be well. Just hold on."

"No!" Legolas wailed in a fitful delirium with unfounded strength in his voice, "No! Eronel came to me and said the water will do nothing! It is no good! She wants war. She plans to escape. She will destroy Middle-Earth! Gimli and I are her pawns! I must warn him! Please, Aragorn, you must believe me." Staring straight into his friend's eyes, Legolas silently pleaded belief, the look of complete desperation shining in his young yet ancient eyes.

Aragorn hesitated. Doubt clouded his mind. There was no way what Legolas was saying was true. It was impossible. How could Eronel have come to him? She was still trapped in his cave a hundred miles away. 

~It is the poison. He is plagued by hallucinations...~ 

Hiding his doubt, Aragorn pulled another fake smile of assurance onto his face. "I believe you, Legolas," he lied, "Just hold on. I must go get Elrond. He will ease your pains until Gandalf, Gimli and your cousin return. They are coming with the cure."

"No..." Legolas moaned stubbornly beneath his breath, his strength steadily bleeding away with every passing second. He tossed his head on the pillow feverishly. "It won't work... She told me..." 

"Shhh shhh," Aragorn hushed softly as if to a child, trying to sooth Legolas' distressed cries. "It is alright. You are safe. I will not let you fall."

Quieting, the fevered Elf lay shivering in half-consciousness. Cracking his heavy eyelids open, Legolas gazed at Aragorn with a distant look in his eyes. "Please, make the pain stop...," he begged in a small voice burdened with the immense weight of weariness and pain, "...It is too much... Please... help me. Too much..." A broken sob sounded somewhere deep within Legolas' throat. "Please... cannot go on. I...want an end." The last few words escaped from his mouth like a sigh. 

Torn by helplessness and pity, Aragorn felt his heart ripped in two. The sheer pain in the Elf's voice tore at his soul. But what struck him the harshest was the total hopelessness in Legolas' voice. 

It was then, that he realized he could no longer bear the sight of his dying friend anymore. It was too painful. Where once a free-spirited Elf full of life, beauty, joy, and the promise of endless tomorrows had been, only a hollowed shell remained. The beauty and strength were gone. All that remained was pain and suffering. 

Pulling a blanket over Legolas' poison devastated body, Aragorn whispered pleadingly, "I must find Elrond. I will return swiftly. Just hold on." Fighting the tears that constricted his throat and stung his eyes Aragorn turned, and fled from the room and into the night. 

~~~~

TBC…

Coming soon: The Drums of War

~~~~

Hey! I've finally written one of those 'short' chapters I've been promising for the longest time! ^_^ But don't go anywhere! Although Gimli, Toreingal, and Gandalf have gone on hiatus for the last chapter or two, they'll be making their grand return next chapter, and everything's starting to come to a major head… 

Anyway, thanks for all those wonderful reviews. I especially liked the ones implying my evilness… Speaking of which:

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Jennifer: Aww thanks! I feel so special whenever I actually make it onto somebody's favorite list.

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Fantasia: Keep reading…Don't give up on me yet!

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ZeroCool: Hey, thanks for reviewing _my _fic too! I would have updated sooner, but with the site being down for that day or so…it kind of just didn't happen! ^_^

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La Kimmycat: Take sedatives! Ha! Joking… And, yes. You now can be considered a real reviewer! 

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Alfarin: Ha ha! I know I'm evil… 

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Hermione Eveningfall: Would I? Or wouldn't I? That is the question…^_^

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Fairylady: Why is everybody calling me evil!? It's not like I enjoy torturing my readers or anything… *snick*

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Black Mirror aka Little Wing: You should be proud! And don't worry, I try not to leave my readers hanging too long.

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Adrienne: Thanks a lot! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Well, that's about it! So until next time,

I'm LAXgirl, signing out!

Oh, don't forget! Review…please?…


	7. Drums of War

Cold sliced through flesh like a sharpened blade through silk. Legolas lay with his limbs curled tightly against his body as he shuddered from the chilly sting of the night. The elf's muscles refused to stop their nervous twitching no matter hard he tried to hold back the violent shivers. Even the thick blanket Aragorn had hastily thrown over Legolas' gaunt form offered little protection from the frigid night time air.

The thin sheet of sweat that coated his trembling body did not help matters at all either. It felt as though the faint breeze that blew into the room from a nearby window froze the salty moisture on Legolas' exposed skin to ice. Misery took on a new meaning to the northern wood-elf.

A rattled groan escaped Legolas' pale lips. The sound was quickly swallowed by the sweat-dampened cover of his pillow. Though racked by bone chattering chills, the cool fabric of the bedding felt almost soothing to his fever burned forehead. But that was the only comfort Legolas found.

In his drugged state, the elf lay unmoving (except for his incessant shivering), exhausted and weary with pain. Despite outward appearances, the medical herbs Aragorn had forced down Legolas' throat had not counteracted the poison or even slowed it. The _Athelas_ tormented him more than helped him. It only deadened his muscles and clouded his mind. The pain hadn't been diminished by any extent. Legolas was so lethargic and drugged he couldn't even make sense of where he was. Left in this half-paralyzed, stupefied daze, Legolas could barely even squirm in agony as the wretched pain of the elf-witch's poison continued to slowly drive him mad. Each of his shallow gasps for air sounded like an individual choke of misery.

Legolas' thoughts lay broken and scattered. All his mind could focus on was the burning trail of fire intricately woven between every fiber and sinew of his left arm. Not even the weak pressure applied by his unafflicted hand offered any relief from the unrelenting torture of Eronel's curse. It was a futile effort to even try. The pain was everywhere. Too much flesh had been lost to the invading toxin. From the tips of his swollen fingers to the base of his collarbone, the pain consumed flesh, bone, and blood. The whole limb felt like one giant, searing wound dipped in acid.

With every wearying beat of Legolas' heart the dark poison continued its unholy invasion.

Eyes clenched so tightly shut against the pain that tears beaded along his eyelashes, the tortured elf curled onto his side. Cradling his infected limb against his chest, Legolas involuntarily cried out as a wave of fresh pain exploded up the length of his arm. Writhing like a worm, Legolas spasmed so violently his back arched up into a U over the mattress of his bed.

Collapsing back down, the dying immortal gritted his teeth defiantly against the black witch's poison that boiled his blood and fed off his ebbing life force. As he fought the morbid temptation to succumb to the blinding pain, Legolas found his chapped lips subconsciously mouthing the faint syllables of a single word- a name! It was the name of the one person in all of Middle-Earth Legolas wanted to have there at his side; to comfort him, to take pity in his plight, to show him that he cared if he lived or died, to let him know he was not alone.

Unable to focus his blurry vision, Legolas groggily called out the name of his missing friend. "Gimli?"

Legolas became distressed at receiving no reassuring touch or gentle word from the dwarf to assure him of his presence. Tossing restlessly in his cocoon of blankets, the elf called out blindly for his bearded companion, desperation tainting his failing voice. "Gimli?"

His numbed mind seemed unable to comprehend why the dwarf refused to heed his plaintive summons. Lost in a fevered delirium, the elf did not remember that Gimli was miles away, racing against time to save his life.

"Gimli?!"

His sharp cry reverberated off the walls and echoed into the lonely night. The air hung heavy in the wake of Legolas' pleading cry. Nothing stirred in the darkness or answered his call. Whimpering in defeat, Legolas sank into the pillowy bedding. Why wouldn't he come? Why would Gimli leave him like this?

The throbbing of his poison riddled arm seemed to pulse with renewed intensity at the thought of Gimli; like a bitter reminder of what else the dwarf had done for him lately. Huddling into himself as another wave of white pain assaulted him, Legolas weakly clenched a handful of sheets and wrung the cloth between his fingers. Only as the blinding pain began to ebb away once again into a constant burn was he able to think again.

_Where is Gimli,_ the distressed elf's mind wailed angrily. How could his friend have left him to suffer this torment alone? All he wanted was his friend there at his side. Where could his friend have gone? Legolas knew Gimli would never leave him like this without some reasoning.

Confused and frustrated in his sickened state, Legolas struggled to sit. Determined (or perhaps too stubborn to give into Fate just yet), the elf strained his muscles to rise, ignoring the ring of hazy blackness that tunneled his vision and threatened to send him spiraling out into unconsciousness. His pale cheeks flushed red as he pushed himself to the breaking point. But Legolas soon found his tenacity and body were just too weak to overcome Eronel's poison. He could not even find the strength to lift his head from the pillow.

Exhausted, Legolas gave up and fell limp into his nest of sheets. The world swum in his eyes, his head feeling dangerously light and disconnected from his body. Blood pounded in his ears. The elf's heart thundered against his rib cage like a hammer. Laying there, gathering the few remaining shards of his strength in his poison-leeched body, Legolas' mind churned. And in a brief moment of clarity, he remembered where his friends were. Gimli was gone. He had left with Gandalf and Toreingal to go in search of his only hope of a cure. Aragorn had left him to seek Elrond for aid. In a way, it was rather ironic; all his friends were doing everything in their power to save his life, but in doing so they were depriving Legolas of the two things he needed now more than anything else: companionship and support.

Realizing he was truly alone, Legolas finally felt the cold chill of abandonment. He wanted his friends there by his side, not gallivanting off somewhere else. He didn't care if their intentions were to save his life or not. He just wanted them there. Especially Gimli. He didn't care about a cure anymore. All he wanted was his friend Gimli there beside him.

Angry tears stung his eyes the more he thought about how unfair Life had become. And the more he brooded, the angrier the young elf became. He was angry at himself. Angry at his own weakness. Angry at Eronel and all her evilness. Angry at the deadly poison in his veins. Angry at Elrond. Angry at Gandalf. Angry at Toreingal. Angry at Aragorn for not staying with him when he needed him the most, and leaving him in his desolate misery to run off into the night. Angry at himself for being careless enough to cut himself on the edge of the tainted dagger. Angry at the world and everybody in it.

And flowing in this fashion, he finally found himself angry with Gimli for ever giving him that cursed gift.

Suddenly realizing where his mind had strayed, Legolas was startled out of his reverie and immediately regretted his despondent thoughts. It was not Gimli's fault or anyone else's. And that was what made it all the worse; there was just no one to really blame. He suddenly felt as though he had betrayed the dwarf's friendship. Here was Gimli, braving unknown dangers and hardships without any thought of himself to go in search of a cure, and here he was, spitting their friendship back into Gimli's face by thinking such atrocious things about him.

His anger quickly dissolved, bitterness replacing it. Laying so helplessly with no one there to offer him any comfort, Legolas silently cursed Fate. Why did he have to suffer? Why did he have to fall victim to this poison? It wasn't fair... So unfair.

A flood of swirling emotions washed over him. Tears of utter despair tumbled from his gray eyes. His head swum with bitterness, loneliness, grief, anguish, and a thousand other woes of the heart, until he finally just felt totally hollow and empty. Emotionally drained, Legolas suddenly felt old and weary and just too tired to care anymore.

And for a brief moment he almost wished he would die. Just die and leave all this pain behind and no longer burden his friends with his suffering.

The pain he had suffered for over three days was slowly breaking him, shattering his spirit. And as he lay there, darkness slowly crept towards him.

_I am nothing but a burden. My friends should not have to suffer like this. Nothing can save me. I am causing everyone nothing but heartache..._

The heavy gloom slowly seeped from the walls. The thick darkness glided through the air and across the ground like tendrils of ink towards the shadow-draped bed.

_It is because of me Middle-earth may be destroyed by war. The blood of a thousand dwarves and elves will be on my head..._

The air hung heavy with a dark presence, the faint moonlight that filtered through the nearby windows consumed by the unnatural shadows.

_All my fault..._

The tears came faster now. The salty water tumbled down his cheeks and wet the pillow beneath his head. Legolas no longer cared for pride or pretense. There was no one there to see him weep in hopelessness anyway. They had all left him... His hollow sobs choked out of him without restraint.

The darkness deepened to a dense, impenetrable shade, the gloom fueled by the tortured elf's sorrow. Hungrily it seemed to feed off Legolas' despair and hopelessness. Lapping now at the feet of the prone and withered body of the dying elf, the black cloud rose up and seeped around Legolas, consuming him in a tomb of lightless cold.

_Why would Aragorn and Gimli leave me like this? What have I done to be abandoned?_

But as the bitter tears continued to gently roll down his face, Legolas' despair seemed to slowly fade with every drop. It was as though he had finally begun to exhaust his anger and anguish at his condition as he let his emotions run their course. Understanding and coherent logic slowly returned to his fevered mind.

He had not been abandoned. Aragorn and Gimli had left him to save him. They had not left him to die in pain. They were fighting to save his life.

Carefully, Legolas pondered this. And as he mulled over this new theory, realization struck him. There was more then just his own life in balance. Not only for himself did he have to fight to stay alive, but also for his friends and the people of Middle-earth.

_I cannot give up. Too much is a stake. If I fall, war will consume Middle-earth. I cannot let that happen. I must fight and hold on. Everyone is counting on me. I cannot let Eronel win!_

Determination swelled in the battered but not defeated elf. He would not surrender without a fight.

The invading shadows that soaked the very air recoiled back from Legolas, repulsed. Swirling in agitation, the black cloud hung heavy in the air, as if uncertain whether to press an attack or not.

_They are fighting to save my life. I cannot let them down. I must hold on. Gimli is coming back with the cure. I must hold on for him..._

A sudden chill brought Legolas out of his thoughts. It crept up his spine and froze his heart cold. It was not a night time breeze of early spring, but rather a darker chill; a foreboding twinge in the pit of his stomach that warned him of an evil presence.

Legolas' breath stilled in wary apprehension. Cracking open bleary eyes still moist with fallen tears, the elf's usually sharp sight was met with an impenetrable wall of black. The darkness robbed him of his vision and deadened his senses. It sealed him off from the world and in a dark void of nothingness.

Legolas' muscles tensed. He knew this blackness. It was the same that had blinded him when he had been lead out into the night by a soft luring voice that sang of freedom from pain and suffering. He could feel the cold presence of a dark force, hiding somewhere behind that inhospitable curtain of shadows. And he knew her well...

_Eronel..._

The elf could practically feel the darkness churning and folding in on itself around him with wrath and malcontent. The poison in his arm throbbed. From out of the unfathomable black void came the single, icy cold voice of the elven sorceress Eronel. The sound echoed through Legolas' skull and filled his ears.

_You are a frustrating creature, my little prince. Even after all you have been through - all this pain and torture- you still hold onto the hope that that pitiful dwarf will return in time with a cure to save your life. He has abandoned you, and yet you still are foolish enough to claim him friend,_ sneered the witch.

"He will return," Legolas retorted, "Gimli has not abandoned me. He will not let me die."

_You are a fool! It is a hopeless venture. The water will do nothing against my poison. Nothing can save you now. You will die and war will scorch the land. Bodies will litter the ground like autumn leaves! Blood will flow like rivers! And I will be released to rule over Middle-earth. A new Darkness will fall, and nothing will stop me! I will rule over this world and death and destruction will flow from my hands like water. Men, Dwarves, and Elves will fall to their knees and worship me!_

"Rather haughty words from one who has been locked away in dank darkness for so many countless years and still has yet to taste fresh air again," Legolas growled from between gritted teeth. "Go crow your fantasies somewhere else! I do not believe any of your lies. You will not fool me. You will never be released from your prison. I will not let you win!".

_But I already have won laughed Eronel's disembodied voice in Legolas' ear. You do not yet know the extent of the game. My pieces have already been positioned for the final move. Checkmate is within only two moves. And you, my poor little pawn, are the first of them._

"Whatever you plan to do to me, it will not work," Legolas said passionately, boldly shouting out into the darkness blindly, not sure of where his enemy actually was, if anywhere in true body or form. "I have already warned my friends of you. Even if you kill me you will not be freed. Aragorn knows it was you that tried to kill me before. He will warn Gimli. Gimli will not be your pawn. Neither one of us will!"

Silence stung Legolas ears, only the beating of his heart rending the air. For a moment, he wondered if Eronel was there any longer and if somehow his words had turned the witch away. But then suddenly, the twitter of cold laughter echoed from out of the stagnant gloom that surrounded him, contesting that Eronel had in fact not abandoned her scheme. Rising in volume, the elven sorceress' cackle drowned out Legolas' own thoughts.

Regaining her composure, Eronel chuckled with such sardonic mirth Legolas involuntarily shuddered. _You actually believe that foolish mortal Aragorn believed you?!_ she exclaimed in twisted amusement as if delighted at Legolas' ignorance. _Let me enlighten you then, my poor little elfling,_ she cooed. _That Man, Aragorn, who you so dearly hold to be your friend, did not believe you for a mere second! He thinks you are delirious. He has dismissed your 'warnings' of me as nothing more then the hallucinations and insane rambles of a dying fool! Why do you think he left you so quickly? He did not believe a word you said. A true friend would not have left you as he did!_

Her words struck deep. Having only just regained faith in his friends, Legolas' mind was again attacked by gnawing doubt. He didn't want to listen to the witch, but her words carried such a bitter reality to them he found himself unable to not question their truth. But Legolas' friendship ran deeper than mere words.

"You are wrong!" he screamed in a weak voice. Wrestling with his body, Legolas struggled to sit. He could no longer stand to lay helplessly by as Eronel manipulated him and treated his life as nothing more then a worthless and dispensable commodity. Gritting his teeth, Legolas strained to raise and face the witch like a warrior.

"You are wrong, Eronel! You lie!"

_Am I?_ she mercilessly probed.

Legolas' poison-withered body screamed in protest as he tried to push himself onto his elbows. His muscles trembled and shoulders shook with effort. Finally, he could endure no more of the excruciating pain that throbbed through his infected arm. Exhausting his last remaining strength, Legolas reluctantly relinquished his battle.

_No! I will not listen to her! They are lies! Aragorn and Gimli did not leave me! I believe in them!_

Eronel's impatience grew as the elf stubbornly refused to listen to her deceitful words meant to cripple his mind and break his spirit. She now saw Legolas was not going to offer her the entertainment of any more mental torment or anguish; his bond with his mortal friends proving too strong to break with lies alone. That being so, it was then time to make the final move.

The darkness thickened. Its cold caress licked at the weak and helpless elf. _My dear Legolas, our time together has reached its end_... Eronel's voice whispered in his ears like the chilly kiss of Death. _It is now time to begin the final stage of the game..._

Legolas tried to struggle, but found his body paralyzed. His muscles felt frozen by dark magic, immobilized by the unseen witch who's poison bled away his strength and ran like fire in his veins.

From the murky quagmire of blackness spawned a shadowy hand with long, wispy fingers. Slowly it stretched out towards the helpless elf. The hand's slender fingertips gently brushed over Legolas' left breast. Spikes of cold shot through his heart like arrows of ice. Gasping, Legolas felt his breath stolen from his lungs. No sound escaped his constricted throat.

Cold exploded through Legolas' body as the shadow-hand delved into the paralyzed elf's chest. Piercing through the flesh, blood and bone, the icy fingers of darkness gently wrapped themselves around Legolas' heart.

He wanted to scream. The jolting cold that flowed out from the hand's dark touch radiated throughout his entire body and coursed through his veins like ice water. The pain in his arm flared white in his eyes.

_Help!...Someone... Please, not like this... Help me...Aragorn...Gimli...Help!_

The black shadow-hand slowly caressed Legolas' heart, fondling it like a delicate toy. Paralyzing cold seeped through his body, the chill slowly numbing the beating of his heart.

_No... Gimli!...Aragorn!...Help!_

He could feel his life slowly seeping from his body. With every stroke of the black fingers, the beating of his heart slowed a bit more.

He tried to call out, but his voice was cut off by Eronel's control over him. Fear and panic seized Legolas. He could not move. He could not defend himself. He was utterly helpless. The sharp sting of frightened tears sprang at the corner of his eyes.

_Gimli!... Help me!_

Suddenly, the black hand clenched the beating organ in its iron grip, mercilessly squeezing it between its icy fingers.

The elf's body stiffened in shock. His eyes widened in pain. His mouth opened to scream, but no sound came.

Time slowed to the faltering beat of his heart.

_Thump_

_No...Not like this..._

_Thump_

The pain that consumed his mind began to ebb. The chill of the air felt less sharp and faded to only a numbed sensation that wrapped his body in a dense fog. Legolas felt weariness descending upon him like a blanket of exhaustion. His eyes felt laden and heavy. Darkness even blacker then Eronel's veil of evil magic fell over him. Legolas suddenly felt tired... so very tired.

_Thump_

And though he tried to fight it, he felt his body falling, falling into a yawning abyss of nothingness...

_Thump_

Tears flowed down his cheeks in rivulets of regret and longing as he fell away from the world. As a final offering of repentance, Legolas sent his thoughts out to one person.

_Gimli..._

A final tear escaped from the corner of his eye and slid down his slackened face.

_Thump_

_I'm sorry..._

_Thu... _

The last drop of sorrow and regret fell from the elf's face and was swallowed by the fabric of the pillow beneath his head.

The darkness lifted from around the elf like mist before the coming morning sun at dawn. Like a bad dream, it faded from the air. Slowly in slunk away from the bed. Slithering like tendrils of thick tar, the black shadow retreated to the corners of the still and quiet room. Seeping into the walls and out into the dead of night, the dark presence left but only a lingering chill in the air.

From beyond the doorway of the room came the hurried footsteps of two people. Rushing into the quiet room, Aragorn burst from the darkness and into the faint glow of moonlight that seeped in through a nearby window. A strange mixture of panic and relief stormed the Man's features as he rushed to the side of the large bed on the far side of the room where a still form lay. Following close behind him, the elf-lord Elrond entered the room in a flurry of flowing green robes and elegantly braided hair. Grim apprehension marred his fair countenance.

Falling to the side of the bed, Aragorn kneeled before his strangely motionless friend, Legolas. The elf lay on his side, staring with half-lidded eyes past Aragorn out towards the window on the far side of the room. The sinking moon hung low in the sky beyond. The sick elf did not stir as the man reached out to smooth back the hair from his pale white face.

"Legolas?" the man called gently to arouse the warrior, trying not to smile with relief. He had finally found Elrond. Everything would be fine now. Legolas would be alright. He was still here. Elrond would help him. Everything was going to be alright...

"Legolas?"

Aragorn's smile slowly faded as he received no response from the sedate warrior. A growing pit of dread churned his stomach. So distracted by Legolas' disturbing quietness, the man did not even hear the soft flutter of Elrond's robes over the floorboards as the elf-lord came up behind him and bent over his foster son' shoulder to examine the Mirkwood prince.

"Legolas? Legolas, answer me!" Aragorn's voice cracked with mounting fear, pleading for response. The elf still did not move. The man stared in mute horror.

The elf's pale gray eyes stared out ahead, nothing stirring in their depths. They were distant and cold; empty and devoid of light or beauty. A drying trail of tears stained Legolas' cheeks. Sorrow and regret lingered on his placid features.

A gentle hand fell on the Ranger's shoulder, offering comfort. Lord Elrond bowed his head sadly, the shadows of the room darkening his features into a mask of grief.

Unable to comprehend or accept Legolas' silence, Aragorn reached out a shaking hand and gently brushed away the tears on his friend's cheek. The elf's skin was cold and clammy to the touch.

"Legolas...?"

* * *

The rain had finally ceased falling from the dark clouds overhead. A gentle mist hung in the air, and the world now seemed quieted and still. Clouds hung low in the sky, spreading a gray roof over the sodden forests below. A strange heaviness permeated the air.

"Hurry up! We are almost there!" ordered a demanding voice that echoed through the humid air as a small group of weary travelers emerged from the thick forests of Imladris and onto a trodden path leading in the direction of the city. Reining his horse back into a brisk walk, Toreingal shifted in his saddle and looked back to his two companions. Annoyed impatience blazed in his sharp gray eyes.

Following close behind in a slow gallop, Gandalf atop his silvery white steed Shadowfax and the dwarf Gimli bobbed into view from between the tall green trees. Their horses heaved and snorted tiredly as they came up beside the elven slave-driver. A thick foam of sweat covered the horses' skin. Their heads arched down low with exhaustion. Mud caked their hooves and splattered their flanks. Their riders' travel raiments faired little better. Ridden hard for three days straight, they had covered over a hundred miles through wet and rocky mountain terrain; a most astonishing feat.

"I believe a horde of Orcs would be more merciful then you, my friend," Gandalf said sarcastically as Shadowfax fell into step beside Toreingal's dappled grey mount. Tired, cold, wet, and hungry all three had forgone sleep and food for several days and nights to make it to the secret valley and retrieve the enchanted water needed to save Legolas' life. In doing so, they had all become understandably miserable and edgy with each other – Toreingal even worse then usual.

"Think what you will, wizard," Legolas' cousin snorted brusquely, "But speed was of our greatest concern. And as you can see, we navigated the journey to and from Eronel's cave within only three days when it should have, by all accounts, taken four at the least. That one day may prove the saving factor of Legolas' life."

Gandalf relented nothing, but merely nodded his bearded head thoughtfully.

_Let us just hope our speed does not prove in vain..._

Ambling farther behind the path then his faster companions, Gimli gave his horse an uncertain jab in the ribs to urge it to keep pace with its equine brethren. Unskilled in the delicate art of horsemanship, the dwarf could not seem to convince his mount to heed his frustrated demands and keep a constant pace that kept him beside his companions. It seemed as though the horse had long ago learnt that it was the master, and merely noted the dwarf on its back as nothing more then a pesky burden.

Grumbling dwarfish obscenities under his tongue about all beasts of burden with four legs, Gimli finally kicked his horse with his stubby legs enough times to finally convince it to speed into a lazy gallop. Managing to at least fall into step behind Gandalf and his pure white stallion, Gimli relinquished his comical display of horseback riding.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, he slouched in his saddle tiredly, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep. As he rocked back and forth in the saddle to the rhythm of his horse, Gimli caught the last few snippets of Toreingal's speech. Gandalf's silence stirred up in the dwarf a growing concern that had been festering in the back of his troubled mind ever since retrieving the enchanted water, the nagging worry planted there by the dark witch herself. For all of the return journey Gimli had kept his concerns to himself (especially his vision of Eronel), but it now seemed as though Toreingal had offered him a small opening to voice his worried thoughts.

Plucking up his courage, Gimli asked tentatively, "But what if the water doesn't work against the poison? What shall we do then?"

Before the dwarf even knew what was happening, Toreingal suddenly drew back on his reigns, startling his horse so much it reared back slightly off the ground and gave a surprised whinny. Gimli's horse luckily saw this fast enough and stopped just before it plowed into the back of the elf's mount. Wheeling the snorting beast around sharply, Toreingal faced Gimli with fire blazing in his eyes.

"What do you mean 'if it doesn't work?'" Toreingal hissed incredulously, rekindled wrath and anger growing in his voice. He stared the stout miner straight in the eyes with his piercing gaze. Gimli fell back, intimidated by this sudden outburst. No reply could he form in his throat to answer the interrogating elf. Again Toreingal pressed his inquiry, "What do you mean, dwarf? Do you think the water will not save my cousin? If I were you, I'd hope and pray to whatever gods you filthy little dirty-movers believe in that it does! It is your fault Legolas is dying! You are nothing but a treacherous little murderer! Legolas was deceived by you and now he lays dying because of his foolish trust! I have suffered your presence thus far, but if this cure proves a failure, I will cut your bearded little head clean off your shoulders for what you have done to my cousin!"

For a minute, Gimli thought the elf was going to fulfill his promise right then and there. Toreingal's hands balled into fists, shaking as though it was only by some small shred of willpower the elf managed to stay a swift grab for the knife at his hip and end Gimli's life.

"Toreingal! Stand down!" Gandalf finally broke in, pushing Shadowfax between the two to separate them before things could escalate any further. Undisputed authority rang in the white wizard's voice as he stared down the enraged elf. The Maia seemed to grow in height and stature even atop his white stallion.

Frightened by the growing shadow that welled up behind the old man, Toreingal fell silent and broke off his assault on Gimli. Seeing he had regained control of the situation, Gandalf let the shadow of power dwindle from around him and returned to his normal self. Casting Legolas' cousin a harsh, warning glance, Gandalf said in level tone, "Why don't you go ahead on the path and see if you can see any sign of Rivendell yet," indicating the direction with his chin and leaving no room for argument in his voice.

Snorting with simmering rage, Toreingal wavered a moment, still glaring at Gimli openly. Finally giving one final disdainful sneer, he slowly turned his horse from the wizard and dwarf, knowing he was no match for such a powerful Istari. Giving his horse a quick jab in the side, the elf took off down the road, leaving the two behind.

As Toreingal turned a corner on the forest path and went well out of ear shot even for an elf to hear, Gandalf turned to Gimli. "Are you alright?" the old man asked gently. Worry creased his already wrinkled face.

Shaking his head ruefully, Gimli murmured, "Yes...I am fine. I should have known better than to bring up such a topic with him. It's just… Oh, never mind. It's nothing."

Gandalf pondered the dwarf thoughtfully in silence for a moment. "What is wrong? Something is troubling you."

Sighing, wearied by the weight of his worries, Gimli was disarmed into confession. "It's...it's just, what if this enchanted water doesn't cure Legolas? What then? What do we do?" His dark eyes implored the mighty wizard for answers, hoping desperately that Gandalf could quell his fears.

"I do not know if the water will work or not," the Maia replied truthfully after a moment of grim contemplation. Gimli was crestfallen. He had hoped Gandalf could dispel some of the doubts planted in his mind by the enchanted image of the elven sorceress. "But we must always keep hope," Gandalf hastily added, seeing the despair in Gimli's face. Giving a reassuring smile, he said, "There is always hope. Come. Rivendell is near and Legolas is waiting for us. I'm sure he misses your company."

"As best he should," Gimli snorted with feigned annoyance, his spirits perking at the mention of his elven friend, "That pointy eared elf is always getting into trouble and expecting me to get him out of it. If I didn't already owe him a debt of sorts, I would have to say he owes me for this!"

Giving Shadowfax a pat on the neck to indicate their readiness to start on again, Gandalf gave a soft chuckle and turned to head down the path in the direction Toreingal had gone. Following behind at a leisurely pace, Gimli's horse only sped to a trot when it heard Shadowfax's low whinny somewhere up the path. Swearing under his breath, the dwarf bounced recklessly in the saddle as his mount cantered down the path towards Rivendell where Legolas awaited their return.

Rounding a bend in the path, Rivendell suddenly sprang into view across the wide valley. Shrouded in a ghostly mist, the elven city seemed to sprout from the very mountain side. Its towers and delicately arched buildings spiraled above the hanging fog that clung to the base of the mountains. It floated like a city in the clouds. The gray overcast sky only added to the ethereal ambiance of the secluded mountain valley.

The small group held a collective breath as they gazed out on the beauty of the quiet city settled in mist.

Echoing out from the still mist that shrouded Rivendell, the slow beat of a drum throbbed through the air. Distant and somber in tone, the drumbeat brought the three travelers out of their mystified thoughts.

"What is that?" Gimli murmured under his voice as they stood listening.

"I do not know," Gandalf answered after a moment, his eyebrows knit up, perplexed. The low drumbeat continued to thump with its slow, purposeful beat.

"Perhaps we have been spotted by scouts and our return reported to Elrond," Gimli proposed helpfully. "The city is probably being alerted to our return." He looked to his travel weary companions for their reactions, but he found only apprehension written in the elf and wizard's faces.

"These kinds of drums would not be used as a welcoming song," Toreingal said. His fair face was blank, but his gray eyes seemed to hold an unspoken fear. He could sense some heavy sorrow in the air. The horse beneath him pawed anxiously at the ground, familiar with the area and eager to return to its stables. "Something is wrong. Something has happened..." Spurring his mount into an all-out gallop, Toreingal dashed down the paved path leading to the main gate of the city, his dark green cape billowing behind him.

Gimli and Gandalf did not even look at each other as they immediately took off after the elf. Shadowfax, even though wearied by the three days journey, easily overtook Toreingal's exhausted steed down the path. Matching paces, Gandalf and Toreingal rode beside each other as they raced down the winding mountain path. Gimli's tired mare dutifully galloped after them, but was soon left lagging behind.

Rounding a bend on the sylvan path, the elf and wizard disappeared from Gimli's sight behind a stand of trees. Cursing under his breath, the dwarf urged his horse faster with a swift kick from his stubby little legs.

_Damn them. They could have at least wait for me. Its not like I'm not part of this mission or anything... The things I do for that pointy-eared, trouble-making elf! Once Legolas is healed, we are going to have to teach his cousin some manners..._

As he himself darted around the turn in the road, Gimli saw the gates of Rivendell raising up in the distance. A small group of figures stood before the high walls of the city, their faces unrecognizable in the distance. Nearing the gate, Gimli saw Toreingal and Gandalf stopped dead in the path, several paces from the city's outer wall. Their backs were turned to him but even from the distance he could sense a certain tension in the air.

Confused, the dwarf hastened towards the group. Reining his panting horse in from its clattering gallop, Gimli drew up alongside Gandalf's right. Casting a furtive sideways glance at his companions, the dwarf caught the troubled expressions on their faces. The two looked out ahead silently, like frozen statues of stone, not even acknowledging that Gimli had caught up with them.

Turning in the direction they stared, Gimli saw that the ones that had come out to welcome them were non other then Lord Elrond, Aragorn and Arwen. Each was robed in clothes of dark, somber hues, their bodies standing like blots of darkness against the fertile brown earth and fresh green of the forest around them. Beyond under the wide arch gate there huddled a small group of figure: the Hobbits. Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Frodo's faces were all turned downward, their usually merry voices strangely quiet and unforthcoming.

The drum continued to pulse in their ears like a heartbeat from somewhere beyond the city's stone gate, the sound now deeper and more dismal in tone then when Toreingal, Gandalf, and Gimli had first heard it across the valley.

No one from the somber delegate moved to speak. Lord Elrond meet the three's questioning gazes, but said nothing. In his pale eyes shined a heavy burden and pain. Aragorn and Arwen stood beside each other slightly behind their father, hands clasped as if in mutual comfort. The Ranger's face seemed listless and blank, half hidden behind his long dark hair. A great weariness hung around him like a cloak.

"What has happened? Where is my cousin?" Toreingal finally asked, breaking the tense silence. A sinking feeling grew in his stomach. Swinging down from his saddle in one fluid motion, the elf stepped towards the ones before him. His searching grey eyes scanned the assembled group, silently demanding answers.

The drum continued to beat a mournful rhythm somewhere inside the city walls.

"My Lord...?" Toreingal's voice faded in his throat as Elrond calmly stepped towards him. Reaching into his flowing blue robes dyed the shade of a moonless, midnight sky, the elf-king's hands withdrew a long bundle carefully wrapped in black silk. Untying the cord that held the cloth in place, Elrond slowly unwrapped it. As the ancient healer lifted the last fold of silk, two ivory-handled knives came into view. Their polished silver blades gleamed dully in the overcast grey light.

Not uttering a word, Elrond offered them reverently to the mud-caked traveler.

Toreingal stared dumbly at the proffered weapons. He felt his heart stop in his chest. The elf immediately recognized them. They were Legolas' knives. Legolas never left anywhere without them. The knives were a treasured gift from his father. He would never be willingly parted with them.

Slow and sad drumbeats reverberated through the damp air and through the hearts of those that heard it.

Toreingal's head snapped up from the blades to look into the face of the elf-king. _Why is Lord Elrond giving me these? They are Legolas'... Why would Elrond be giving these to me?!_ The elf's mind reeled. He refused to believe what Elrond's presentation of his cousin's weapons could mean.

The elf-lord stood motionless, his ancient grey eyes silently speaking everything Toreingal feared.

"No..." Toreingal slowly backed away from Elrond as though the ancient healer offered him a poisonous snake. "No..." The elf's eyes darted from face to face of the party gathered around him. He vainly searched for some sign that this was all just some kind of cruel joke, or a terrible nightmare he would wake up from at any moment. His breath stuck in his throat. His heart hammered against his chest, matching the heavy beat of the drum that continued to sing its mournful song.

_No...This isn't happening! It can't be!_

"No!" Toreingal cried shrilly as he suddenly shot past Elrond before anyone could do anything. Shoving past the others, Toreingal sped under the arched stone gate of Rivendell and into the mist covered city. No one made a move to stop him. They knew the pain he felt.

Blinded by grief Toreingal ran recklessly through the deserted streets. Though he made no effort to direct himself, his feet seemed to know where they ran and flew beneath him. Toreingal ran like this for some short spance of time that nevertheless seemed to stretch on for all of eternity.

_No...It is not true. There is some kind of mistake. It has to be..._

Snapping his blurry eyes into focus, he saw he had reached the courtyard of the Last Homely House. By what way he had gotten there, he did not know. The whole world seemed dismal and covered in shadows to his foggy mind.

The beating of the drum rang out loudly now, it seeming to echo from somewhere on the high ramparts of the palace above. A faint mingling of voices caught Toreingal's ears as he sprinted across the courtyard. There were many, their tone sorrowful. Singing as one, the ghostly choir chanted a lament. The noise carried through the mist like the song of mourning doves.

Bounding up the steps and into the darkened halls beyond, Toreingal rushed through the corridors, driven by the desperate hope he held in his heart towards the sound of the sad voices. Reaching a corner of the palace he did not know, the Mirkwood elf suddenly burst into a large empty room several dozen paces long and wide. Buffeted in the face by the pungent scent of incense, Toreingal froze on the threshold.

A dim grey light filtered in through a set of windows positioned on either side of the far wall of the great room. Mist shrouded purple mountains sprang up behind the vast palace gardens that stretched on into the distance beyond the clear glass. Between the tall, ceiling-high windows a small dais rose from the floor. Atop this low platform, a stone altar had been raised.

Staring in disbelief, Toreingal staggered forward. His footsteps listlessly scraped across the floor beneath him. How he managed to make it across the empty expanse he could not say.

_No..._

Shakingly, he neared the foot of the dais and its laden alter. Staring at it, he suddenly felt distant and detached from the world, as if he were in a dream. None of it seemed real. But yet, there he stood, and knew in some corner of his heart this was no dream.

Bitter tears of stubborn refusal to accept what he saw brimmed along the rims of his eyes. Falling to his knees, the elf was unable to find the strength to stand any longer. Shaking his head defiantly against what he saw, Toreingal tried to form some semblance of speech in his mouth. "No...Please no..." His words came like a plea, imploring the mercy of any higher power near enough to hear.

But even if some roaming Valar had heard his prayer or not, the scene did not change.

And then the full weight of what lay before him came crashing down like a massive blow to his heart. Unable to bear anymore, the elf sagged to the floor, his lithe body beginning to tremble and shake with violent sobs. Closing his eyes tightly against the grief, Toreingal was finally forced to accept cold reality. Casting himself prostrate upon the floor at the foot of altar, the proud and self-righteous elf wept bitterly, letting his anguished howl mingle with the somber voices still singing their sad lament...

* * *

He has seen many terrible things throughout the long years of his life; horrible scenes of war, death, and sorrow; but none as devastating as what he now saw. Devoid of drama or pomp, it was the sheer stillness and calm aftermath of the scene that disturbed his soul. For many years afterwards, the image would still haunt him, burned forever into the template of his memories.

Gimli, son of Glóin, stared in mute horror, his feet rooted to the stone floor beneath his boots. His head felt light, dizzied by disbelief and shock. The world felt as though it was crumbling around him.

The dwarf had chased after Toreingal, following the elf through the mist chocked streets of the lonely city. He did not know why he had taken off after Toreingal. In his heart he knew it was true, but his stubborn mind still refused to believe. And so he had followed, driven by the same surging swell of grief and disbelief that afflicted the elf, unable to accept what his friends' eyes so silently proclaimed.

And though he ran with the raw power of a single faint and desperate hope coursing through his veins, Gimli could not keep pace with the elf's long elven stride, and had gradually and ever so frustratingly fell behind Toreingal. Letting his heart guide him after the elf had long ago disappeared from sight, the dwarf had finally caught up to his arrogant companion in a large, empty room of Elrond's palace that was filled with the scent of incense and grief. Toreingal sat kneeing at the base of a low dais, his head bent almost to the floor, weeping inconsolably. His proud shoulders were stooped forward and shook violently with racking sobs and unabashed tears.

There, Gimli also found his dearest and most beloved friend. But their reunion was not one of joy or gladness, but rather one of sundered hopes and loss. An anguished cry of disbelief tore from the dwarf's throat at what he beheld.

_Oh no... Legolas...We are too late..._

Stretched out upon a raised table of stone on the far end of the room, Legolas lay in state.

The elf-prince's body rested atop a silvery gray mantle that hung in billowing folds over the edges of the altar and draped down towards the floor. His right hand lay folded up over his chest. The silver bow Galadriel had bestowed to Legolas years ago before the Fellowship's departure from Lothlórien during the War of the Ring was fitted neatly into his ungrasping hand. Legolas' left hand lay flat beside his body, shrouded beneath a sheet of white silk. The cloth had been draped over him to cover the lower portion of his body, but moreover to discretely hide his discolored hand stained a sickly blue by the poison that had stolen his life.

The elf's motionless body was clothed in a light grey velvet robe, the royal raiment's flowing long sleeves falling over the edge of the stone table.

Beneath a delicate silver circlet wrought in the image of twisting vines, Legolas' carefully washed face lay peaceful and serene, his eyes closed like that of a sleeping mortal. The elf's pale skin shined a beautiful ivory shade in the dim light that filtered through the windows flanking either side of the dais.

Neatly brushed and braided away from his face in the half-up style he was most oft to wear, Legolas' hair cascaded like a waterfall of golden locks over his shoulders and the small cushion pillowing his head against the cold slab of stone beneath him.

And though Legolas' kin wailed loud and piteously at his feet for him to return to them, the elf did not stir from his eternal sleep.

_No... Legolas... Oh, please come back... I'm sorry..._

The dwarf stood frozen in place, staring at the motionless body as though expecting at any moment for Legolas to suddenly sit up and make some blithe joke about Gimli being too sentimental for his own good. And though Gimli strained his eyes to detect some small hint of breathing from the elf's chest, Legolas continued to lay silent and still like an empty shell.

Gimli's heart felt like a dead lump in his chest. He felt sick to his stomach. His legs felt numb and wobbly under him, ready to give out at any second. Grasping for something to steady himself with, Gimli clutched at the wall behind him. His eyes blurred with tears.

_Legolas...No... This is all my fault… I'm sorry. I am so sorry…_

Closing his eyes against the world and against the horrible vision of Legolas' lifeless body before him, the dwarf let the unstoppable flood of tears course down his wrinkled face and soak his beard.

As he leaned against the wall trying to comprehend the full magnitude of what had happened, the noise of the room seemed to fade from his ears. Toreingal's empty cries of anguish and the sorrowful lament sung by the elves of Elrond's household drifted away like a distant murmur.

Through the dwarf's grief hollowed mind, a repetitious beat echoed like a heartbeat. It was slow and heavy and filled his ears as though it were the only sound in the entire world. Listening so intently to the unfaltering pulse, it felt as though the air practically throbbed with the mournful beat.

It was the sad drum that had been playing throughout Rivendell, announcing the loss of one of Ilú vatar's immortal children to the world. But as its beat throbbed in his ears, Gimli suddenly felt as though the sad song seemed to change; its pitch becoming more ominous and threatening, like that of a war drum, signaling the first charge of a coming army of death and destruction.

Lost in grief, Gimli suddenly realized he could not let the drum continue its war call, or let Legolas remain in this cold and silent state of death. And in that moment, he knew what he had to do...

TBC

Till next time,

I'm LAXgirl, signing out!

Please review!


	8. Blinded by Grief

Hey there! Thought I was dead, didn't you? I wouldn't be surprised... With school, work, and the start of a brand new season of hard-hitting lacrosse, trying to find time to write is nearly impossible!! (BTW... we've already won two of our first three games and we came out fourth in rank for our indoor LAX league! Go Rebel lacrosse!!) Anyway, I finally got another chapter to add to that dreadful cliffhanger I left you all with last time. Hope I just didn't scare too many people away with Legolas dying and all... Because if I did, they're going to miss out on a LOT. And I mean that! Just stick with me a little longer!

But before we get to the story I have a few things I felt needed to be shared because they've been bugging me...

1. There have been some minor revamps in the first two chapters. I've started on the much needed revision to this work so far and am doing it in small installments. There's no major changes in them, just a little elaboration in some minor parts that I feel I just breezed over before, so if it behooves you, check it out. 

F.Y.I: Legolas' mother' name has been changed from whatever horrible elvish name I saddled her with before. (Just so you're not confused when it comes up in this chapter) Also on that note, I will not be going into great detail about Legolas' mother's death or his brothers and sister, etc etc... Other people have covered those areas and they just aren't really that important to this story, so I'm not going to waste people's time with my own take on it. 

2. As some of you may have noticed (as I myself have found out) this story doesn't exactly follow the Tolkein timeline. Since starting this story, I've finished reading Two Towers, Return of the King, the Hobbit, the Silmarrillion, and am currently in the midst of Unfinished Tales. So needless to say, I realize this is kind of AU, but you don't mind that do you? Just go with the flow right? It's a little too far gone to try and force into Tolkein's timeline...

3. I just want to say thanks again to everyone for their great reviews that make me feel so warm and fuzzy inside... But even more so, thank you ZeroCool. You are seriously my new favorite person! I could just hug you! 

So enjoy the chapter!

Disclaimer: You know the drill... But if you REALLY need to see it again see chapter one.

***************

Mist hung low between the tress. Beneath the leafy canopy of the dense forest, the dark shadows of the night melted away as a faint light pierced a distant corner of the star filled heavens. Creeping over the eastern horizon, the flame wreathed head of Arien burst forth over the jagged mountain rim and spilt her charge's light over the sleeping world, dispelling the night and all its shadows and secrets. 

Dew clung heavily to the slender blades of the grass in a narrow but level clearing of the steep but trackable pass of one of the nameless pinnacles of stone that made up the long chain of peaks aptly dubbed the Misty Mountains. The open ground shimmered like a carpet of diamonds in the golden light. But what would have otherwise been a peaceful and tranquil stretch of untamed land stained in a brilliant wash of gold by the raising sun, was laden with the heavy tension of impending death and destruction in the air. 

Trodden under the hooves of sturdy war horses, areas of grass lay trampled and gave off little reflection of the early morning sun. A half dozen rings of blackened earth smoldered in the grassy clearing. Whispy tendrils of white smoke wafted up from the dying fires and snaked through the air before finally disappearing into the chilly air. Laying in huddled groups along the ground, at least three legions of elven archers, swordsman, and infantry slept. Watchful guards patrolled along the outskirts of the large encampment, their polished armor gleaming in the growing sunlight. 

Thranduil, leader of this war-party and elven king of the northern woodland realm of Mirkwood, stood in the entrance of his private tent. The elf-lord stood motionless with his arms folded across his slender but solid chest, feet planted wide beneath his shoulders. In the dim morning light, Thranduil looked like the carved statue of an ancient god; stern and proud, beautiful but dangerous. Beneath an elegant arrangement of braided long blond hair and a thin silver circlet that testified his social position, Thranduil's ageless face was unreadable. His fair and delicate elven features betrayed none of his emotions. After so many centuries of ruling a country and bearing the weight of such responsibility, Thranduil had learned to wear his face like a mask. But he was not ascetically without depth or spirit. His deep and ancient grey eyes sparkled with an inner power and fiery pride that warned both enemies and allies alike of a volatile temper that was often threatening to break loose should he suffer either injury or insult to his person. The twin orbs of swirling blue-grey liquid could captivate almost any living being with their piercing intensity.

Dyed the shades of it's owner's kingdom, the green and silver shelter had been pitched on the far side of army encampment, near the edge of the surrounding mountain forest. Around the king were encircled the most elite and seasoned of Mirkwood's warriors, skilled in almost every conceivable weapon and form of battle. 

Not heeding the dew that soaked along the hem of the long green robe that mantled his riding clothes beneath, Thranduil stood trying to absorb what little unmarred beauty remained to the mountain sunrise. But the elf-lord found no peace in the golden dawn. The brilliant rays of pure light only reflected off the armor and weapons of his troops and reminded Thranduil of his mission, and of the one that had brought him with such urgency to this uninhabited section of Middle-Earth in the first place: his youngest son Legolas, who lay poisoned and dying in the distant elven city of Rivendell. 

Perhaps if the letter he had received almost three days before hadn't said how his son had fallen into such a state, Thranduil may have only taken with him a small escort of guards to hasten himself to Legolas' side. But his nephew's message had clearly stated by who the youngest prince of Mirkwood had been stricken ill. The Dwarf. The same bearded little miner that had shown up on Thranduil's doorstep only several years before beside his son, proclaiming friendship with Legolas. 

Even from the beginning he had said Legolas' friendship with a dwarf would turn out ill in the end. He had even voiced his opinion to Legolas on several different occasions, but his son had always stubbornly refused to listen to wisdom. In fact, Legolas had taken a very venomous stance against Thranduil concerning the issue of his friendship with a dwarf. And it was that same hard-nosed stubbornness he had inherited from his father that was responsible for several explosive shouting matches that had broken out between the father and son. 

What was that Dwarf's name anyway? Ah, yes!- Gimli... How could he forget? He was the spawn of one of those other hairy little dwarves he had caught tramping through his land more than sixty years ago, and had escaped from the dungeons after heisting a good amount of his wine and food. 

It now seemed as though Thranduil's suspicions of Legolas' naive friendship with such a deceitful creature had finally been proved truth. But the elven king had little to gloat over. Legolas now lay dying. What grim satisfaction of proving a rebellious child wrong could a father find in this? 

Yes, perhaps if Toreingal hadn't said who had poisoned Legolas then Thranduil would have been making better time through the treacherous Misty Mountain passes without the hindrance of a hundred and fifty of his most skilled and battle-seasoned warriors to slow him down. But he intended to exact revenge for the Dwarf's treachery. And he intended to use the edge of his blade to achieve it. The paternal rage Thranduil felt welling in his heart in response to the harming of one of his children only seemed to double with every passing mile that brought him ever closer to his ill son and the Dwarf. 

Having ridden hard for almost two days straight now, Thranduil was now on the eastern border of Imladris, perhaps only four days outside of Rivendell. 

The son of Oropher's sharp and piercing steel-grey eyes continued to stare intently at the rising yellow ball of light in the east as it climbed ever higher into the sky over the surrounding mountain peaks, illuminating the snow capped summits in a golden radiance.

As he silently watched the sun glide along on its heavenly track, the king continued to stare out into the distance as if entranced by the dawn. Though Thranduil appeared to be lost in thought, he was in fact very aware of his surroundings. His keen ears did not fail to detect the faint rustling of bed rolls and blankets as his company began to stir. Brought out of his silent revery, the ancient warrior watched as his troops pulled themselves from their dreams to face a new day. 

Thranduil was used to being one of the first to rise before the crack of dawn. He knew few others shared his habit and preference of waking in the dim hours of the morning before the world began to awake, but today a slight twinge of annoyance nagged at him. He wanted to be off, continuing their march towards Imladris and the city of Rivendell. He would have ordered his troops onward throughout the night, but the pass was too steep to navigate by only moonlight, and it had been raining on and off all yesterday, making the rocky mountain trail even more slippery and treacherous. It would have just been too dangerous. So he had reluctantly halted the small army. 

It would take at least another hour to break camp. Under normal circumstances, especially with a company as large as the one that accompanied Thranduil, this would be considered good time, but to the king, it seemed like an eternity. 

Several soldiers bold enough to brave the chilly morning air were already rekindling some of the burnt-down fires from the night before. The rest would soon follow and rise to eat a quick morning meal and then ready their horses for departure. 

Sweeping his critical eyes one final time over the stirring camp, Thranduil turned and slipped into his tent, knowing his standing there like a lurking troll would not hasten their departure any faster. Dropping the tent flap down behind him, the elf-lord slowly trudged to the far end of canvas shelter. The dark green sides of the structure let in only a dim hint of light from the bright morning sun outside. But the shadowy cave seemed to suit Thranduil's mood.

Falling onto a nearby wooden stool that served as one of the few pieces of furniture in the mobile establishment, the king heaved a tired sigh. As he did so, the elven king's hardened exterior dissolved, melting away into the tired facade of grim reflection. For a moment, he sat there motionless, slouched upon his chair where no one else could see the toll of his emotional exhaustion and worry. Then, slowly he reached under the folds of his green robe and pulled free a small slip of wrinkled paper folded into a tight square. The edges were soft and worn, as though the creased parchment had been handled and thumbed continually for some time. 

Unfolding the creased piece of paper, bits of flowing elven script gradually sprang into view. So slow and methodical did Thranduil do all this, it was plain to see these motions had become something of a habit to the stoic and proud elf-king. Smoothing back the last section of slightly weathered parchment, the scrawled and slightly tilted handwriting of a younger elf came into view. Thranduil's eyes scanned over the short block of words before him, not actually reading them. He had read and reread that note so many times, every word and phrase was now forever committed to memory. But still he kept it. 

Ever since the message had come to him, Thranduil had felt some strange attachment to that single piece of paper. At times when he was alone with no one else there to see him, Thranduil would find himself fingering the small square of paper, or opening it to gaze upon the writing like he was doing now; as though he held some small hope that the words might have changed since the last time he laid eyes on them. But the thin black sweeps of ink continued to stare back at him, mocking him: 

__

My Lord and Uncle,

I write to you with grave and urgent news. While here in Rivendell under the hospitality of Lord Elrond, your son Legolas was poisoned by a dwarf named Gimli. Legolas was attended to by Lord Elrond, and the poison slowed for the time being. But he is fading fast. Elrond says he knows of no cure. Time is short. Your presence is requested here at once. Gimli and a small company of other dwarves remain in Rivendell under the protection of Elrond. Military force suggested. We await your arrival.

-Toreingal 

The flowing elven script began to blur as Thranduil continued to stare down at the letter that had torn his world asunder. He could feel his throat beginning to tighten as he fought back the flood of emotions that assailed him. Although the elf-king's eye misted with the anguish his nephews note still managed to wrestle from him, Thranduil would let no tears stain his cheeks. Thranduil was not one to ever be considered emotional. Other than the rare times he let himself be caught up in a moment of merriment, or when his temper managed to get the better of him, the king of Mirkwood was unreadable and closed. Over the years, many had accused him of being cold, even to his own family. And in some distant corner of his heart, that hurt. 

It wasn't that he did not love or care for his sons and daughters, it was just that he never could find the proper way of expressing his feelings. He had tried many times to, but his actions and words always came across as awkward and clumsy. He just didn't feel comfortable pouring his heart out to others. It made him feel vulnerable. And after his wife's death only several decades after Legolas' birth, he had stopped trying all together.

And yet, despite his relatively impersonal nature, he had always felt a certain bond between himself and his youngest son; the last child his wife Aelin had given him before she had died. And it was in Legolas Thranduil found some lasting remnant of his deceased wife. Not only did his son resemble the beautiful maiden the young crown prince of Mirkwood had asked to be his wife, Legolas had also inherited Aelin's adventurous and untamable spirit. He would not lie, they had their disagreements and rocky times, but Thranduil always knew he and Legolas shared a stronger bond then they sometimes let on. The thought of now losing Legolas like he had Aelin was unthinkable. 

~Legolas... Why did this have to happen to you? I warned you that a friendship with a Dwarf would only prove troublesome. But you were too stubborn to see the wisdom in my words. I knew I should have forbidden you to continue your acquaintance with that dwarf, but I did not heed my own instincts. But he will pay. That dwarf will pay if anything happens to you. No one poisons my child and lives to tell about it... ~

All of a sudden as muffled tap came from the entrance of Thranduil's tent. The soft but insistent knock sounded through cavernous interior and startled Thranduil out of his thoughts. Regaining his composure quickly, the elf-king called out, "Yes?" His stern voice was devoid of any hint of the emotional distress he had been suffering only a moment before. 

From beyond the closed tent flap, a tentative female voice answered. "My Lord? I carry an urgent message." Thranduil immediately recognized the voice as being that of one of his field commanders in charge of a division of the archers that had been ordered to accompany him to Rivendell. 

"Enter." 

Pulling aside the green flap of canvas, the lithe outline of a female warrior stood silhouetted against the bright morning light that poured into the tent behind her. Her flowing mane of pale blond hair was pulled back from her face in a single braid, and glowed like a halo of light around her head as she stood in the tent door. Thranduil blinked back the sudden brightness as his commander slipped into the dark interior of king's private tent. 

Standing to address her, Thranduil hastily shoved Toreingal's message back beneath his green robe, hiding the note from his commander's questioning gaze. He didn't want anyone else to see it. The letter had become in some odd way a link to his son, the last connection Thranduil had to Legolas. And the king was not about to share that with anyone else. 

"What news do you bring, Celion?" he asked curtly. 

"We have just intercepted a carrier pigeon flying in the direction of Mirkwood," Celion explained, standing at attention before her liege. "It carried with it a message addressed to you, my Lord. It is stamped with the seal of Lord Elrond of Imladris." 

Holding out her hand, the warrioress offered a tiny scroll, no longer or wide then a person's little finger. A knot of undefinable dread tightened in Thranduil's stomach as he took the proffered roll of paper. Bowing low, Celion immediately turned and slipped from out of the tent. She knew it was not her place to be there to discover the contents of Lord Elrond's letter. Whatever it was, she had a strong feeling that it wasn't good. Rarely did the elf-lords of Middle-Earth communicate by way of carrier pigeons. Many times the birds would lose their course and the message would end up lost and never delivered. Only under the most direr of circumstances, when time was of the essence and when the bird's wayward tendency would have to be risked were they used. 

Meanwhile, Thranduil had not even noticed his commander's exit. All he could focus on was the tiny scroll grasped tightly between his thumb and forefinger. Unbeknownst to the king of Mirkwood, he shared the same apprehension as his commander. The last time he had received such an urgent message, it had been from his nephew telling him his youngest son Legolas had been incurably poisoned. 

Turning the thin roll of paper over in his hand, Thranduil indeed saw Elrond's seal adorning the side. A glob of thick red wax had been melted over the edge of the scroll to seal the paper in place. The signature mark of Lord Elrond - a six-point star- had been emblazoned boldly into the wax when it had still been warm. Thranduil stared down at the blood-red dot of impressed wax with a foreboding twinge of dread stirring in the pit of his stomach.

~What kind of message would Elrond have to send me with such urgency?~ 

Some tiny voice in the back of his head told him he didn't want to know. But the overwhelming need to know what the letter contained was too much for the king to ignore. What if it held news of Legolas? He had to know.

Gingerly snapping the wax seal apart, Thranduil let the tiny scroll unfurl into a loose loop of curled paper in the palm of his hand. Grasping either end of the narrow slip, the king pulled the scroll of parchment taunt between his hands. A moment of hesitation ensued before Thranduil finally let his eyes decipher the flowing elvish characters of Lord Elrond's message. 

As he finished the note, Thranduil's grip on the scroll slackened, and the slip of paper fell to the ground at his feet. Backing slowly away from the partially curled piece of paper laying so innocently there on the ground, the elven king could not hide the utter horror that spread across his face. Clamping a trembling hand over his mouth, Thranduil continued to back away until he finally bumped into the far back wall of the tent His blue-grey eyes were wide with disbelief and shock. 

~No...Legolas....~ 

Trying to steady himself against the flimsy canvas side of the tent, Thranduil found the energy drained from his body. His trembling knees buckled beneath him as several hitching sobs escaped his constricted throat. Slowly sinking to his knees, the proud king's vision began to blur with tears. 

And in that single moment, for the first time in Thranduil's life, he could not control the overwhelming grief that assailed him, and he finally succumbed to the bitter betrayal of his emotions. Tears tumbled down Thranduil's grief twisted face. 

~No...my son...~ 

The elf-king's shattered mind struggled to comprehend Elrond's letter. It was too much to take in. It just could not be true! 

~No. It cannot be...~

A whirling tempest of memories stormed the ancient elf-king's mind, all of his youngest son Legolas. The images flooded over him, stealing him of his will to try and stop them; because memories were all he had now. 

Thranduil's helpless sobs only intensified as he remembered the first time the tiny bundle of his newborn son Legolas had been placed into his arms. He could still picture his youngest child's pudgy face looking up at him curiously with his mother's sapphire-blue eyes, and the delightful way the babe's delicately pointed ears framed its perfectly round head. He could still feel the downy softness of the infant's hair on his skin as Legolas cuddled against his chest, nestling his head into his father's shoulder.

~No...Legolas. It's not true. You can't be gone...~

The image of the newborn baby slowly faded into that of a young elf, not even a hundred years old. The boy's vibrant blue eyes sparkled with a carefree, innocent joy as he played in shadows of a sunlit forest. The ghost of a distant past smiled warmly, his mischievous gaze directed to that of his father. Slowly the boyish features transformed into those of a newly acknowledged warrior, his piercing grey eyes kindling with the inner fire of an adventurous soul. The innocence was gone, replaced by the longing to travel and meet new people, to fight in battles and explore the world. 

~You cannot be gone, Legolas... You cannot leave me again~

Thranduil's memories then jumped to a certain autumn morning not too long ago when he had gone to bid his son a safe journey to Rivendell. The young prince was leaving to inform the Lord of Imladris of the escape of a wretched little creature named Gollum who had been entrusted into their care by the wizard Mithrandir. Thranduil still remembered how reluctant he was to let his youngest son leave that day, no longer a boy but as a fully recognized adult ready to forge his own path in the world and embrace his future. The father also remembered how afraid he was at the lurking thought of possibly never seeing his son again. 

~No... My son. Legolas, you cannot be gone...You cannot be dead!~

Unable to contain the swirling tempest of grief any longer, Thranduil's heart broke and he cried forth the name of his youngest son, the one whose life had been stolen from him. 

"LEGOLAS!!... NO!" 

Even from across the wide clearing, the anguished howl rang with such utter despair and loss, the elven warriors preparing to continue their march to Rivendell immediately dropped everything they were doing at that moment and turned towards Thranduil's tent, startled. The king's hollow cry echoed off the surrounding hills and mountains and faded into the distance. A stinging silence followed in its wake. 

For a moment, there was no movement, no sound, not even the hint of breath as the large company of elves waited tensely for something to follow, confused by this sudden outburst. Slowly, realization dawned on the warriors. 

The anguish seeped into every syllable of that single name sent up by Thranduil spoke everything they needed to know. That cry had been the wail of a father hopelessly calling for a lost child that would never return to him. And it was the mournful announcement of their youngest prince's defeat to a vile poison. 

Prince Legolas was dead. 

A wave of despair and disbelief slowly spread through the assembled warriors. The soft weeping of mourners gradually rose into the chilly morning air, filling the empty void of silence with grief. Many of the elves bowed their heads low, taking a moment of silence to pay their respects to their departed ally and brother-in-arms. Several chocked back sobs. 

Legolas had trained beside many of the warriors for several hundred years, learning the skills of warfare to protect his homeland and people. He had been more than just a prince or a warrior. He had been a faithful friend and companion to all that knew him. He was the type of warrior both Elves and Men trusted their lives to without a second thought. But now he was dead, gone forever. The sorrow and grief of the elves of Mirkwood was overwhelming. It seeped through the air and cast a dark shadow over the dawn lit mountain side clearing. 

Alone beside her horse on the outskirts of the army's camp, Celion hung her head in sorrow. With Thranduil's cry, her deepest suspicion had been confirmed. Mirkwood had just lost one of its finest warriors and most noble elves. Like the rest of her company, Celion was grieved by Legolas' passing, but beyond the remorse, the female elf perceived a cold chill creeping along the edges of her sorrow. She could feel a certain doom hanging in the air. 

~What now, my Lord?~ she pondered as she looked towards the dark, grief seeped tent of her king. ~ Will you continue on with your campaign of hate and revenge, or will Death claim even more innocent lives?~ 

But in the grips of his anguish, Thranduil's mind could not see things quite the same as his commander. All he knew was the burning rage that managed to pierce through the blinding fog of grief that clouded his mind. An unsateable thirst for revenge began to fester and grow in the king's broken heart. 

~That dwarf... He stole my son from me. He murdered Legolas.~ 

Diverting his energy to the building rage in his chest, Thranduil began to regain some control over himself. His tears began to slow and his mind began to clear as he let the anger claim him. 

~That dwarf... He will pay. He murdered my son. He will pay.~ 

Sucking in a shaky breath of air, the anguished father slowly pulled himself to his knees. A surge of renewed purpose pulsed through his veins, overshadowing his despair and grief. He would avenge Legolas. His son's murderer would not go unpunished. Wiping the shameful remnants of tears from his cheeks, the proud king resolved himself to rise. As he stood, the sorrow disappeared from his face. By the time Thranduil straightened and squared his shoulders defiantly against the weight of grief that still pressed down on him and threatened to bend his spirit, his elven facial features had hardened into the set expression of boiling determination and rage. Mourning would have to wait. He would not rest until his son's murderer was brought to justice, until he had his revenge. And his revenge would not be completed until the blood of the dwarf Gimli stained the edge of his sword.... 

*****

TBC...

*****

OK, things are shaping up nicely. I've already started on the next chapter where we'll head back to Rivendell and see the devastation left in Legolas' wake... I would have had more in this chapter, but that would have taken at least another week and I didn't want you all to wait too long. 

So 'till then,

I'm LAXgirl, signing out! 

Please review? 


	9. Lies and Deceit

Pheew! Talk about a impatient readers! I've never had so many people itching for a new chapter. I hope you will forgive the time it took me to update, but I'm sure you will see my reasons as you read this literary monstrosity. I worked to write this bad boy during study halls, my breaks at work, and almost any other spare moment when I could grab a pen and paper or jump on the computer. 

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings or any of Tolkien's characters. I'm just borrowing them for the moment and I will return them to him when I deem it fit! 

*************

It seemed as though the entire world had been thrown into mourning. Thick gray clouds hung low in the sky, foreboding gloomy. Rain fell from above in misty showers. It was as though the heavens were weeping, sending down their tears in rainy torrents. Bleak and dreary, the city of Rivendell lay still and quiet beneath the rain-laden clouds.

The whole city lay under the shadow of mourning. Sable banners hung from every wall and roof of delicately erected buildings in the cold and silent streets of the mountain haven. Even Lord Elrond's standards had been wheeled down from the palace walls and replaced with the somber black flags of mourning. Usually reserved for the announcement of some great tragedy that had struck the royal house of Imladris, the blank lengths of cloths snapped dismally in the chilly, rain-laced wind. 

Inside the palace of Lord Elrond, the vast corridors of the Last Homely House were hollow and empty of the laughter and singing that usually soaked its walls with the warmth and happiness of life. The beautiful and melodious songs of those elven halls had been hushed and silenced. The only songs that drifted through the air were those of laments, singing of the tragedy that had befallen one of the immortal children of Iluvatar. The haunting melody of fair elven voices echoed through the darkened palace and through the hearts of all that heard them. Where once light and joy resided, darkness and sorrow now hung heavy in the house of the ancient elf-lord. 

In the north wing of the palace, deep within the grief draped halls and passages, the faint weeping of grieving elves drifted to the ears of the mortal foster-son of Lord Elrond. Aragorn's listless footsteps echoed off the walls as he slowly trudged down the hallways of the elven palace. The hollow scrapes of his feet on the cold stone floors sounded as if he no longer had any purpose to go on. His pale, red-rimmed grey eyes stared down at his feet, not even bothering to direct them. 

Close beside the strangely distant Ranger, the beautiful elf-maiden Arwen gently guided him along. Arms interlocked at the elbows, the two made their way slowly down the palace corridor. 

Looking out of the corner of her eye with a worried glance, Arwen discreetly examined her mortal lover's vacant face. Under the man's distant grey eyes, dark circles shadowed his face. The sharp-sighted and troubled princess did not fail to notice the thin lines that now creased the corners of Aragorn's face. Overnight, he seemed to have aged several years. His broad shoulders sagged forward wearily as if he carried a heavy burden on his back. His head refused to lift from off his chest. 

Arwen looked on in distress. She could think of nothing to say or do that would ease the Ranger's torment. For a day and a night now, Aragorn had lived under this shadow of melancholy, silently grieving the death of one of his closest friends. Nothing seemed to reach the once proud and strong-spirited warrior who now masqueraded as this haggard shell of a man. 

Ever since Legolas Greenleaf, elven prince and youngest son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood, finally succumbed to the dark poison of the ancient sorceress Eronel, Aragorn had become distant and closed. He never spoke unless directly addressed; and then it was only a half-hearted, one word as a reply before he retreated back into the dark depths of his black depression. 

Arwen knew it would take time to heal the loss and pain of Legolas' death, but the elf-maiden was beginning to worry about Aragorn and the others that grieved so bitterly for their deceased comrade and friend. She shared their sorrow, for she had wept just as hard as anyone else for the loss of her dear friend, but the elven princess had never seen such hopelessness and despair haunt the eyes of those around her. Legolas' parting had torn a hole in the hearts of all those he had left behind, and it was a wound that would probably never fully heal. 

Breaking out of her thoughts, Arwen realized tears had begun to well up in the corners of her eyes. 

Yes, Legolas would be sorely missed. He had been the light and laughter of the group. And even though Arwen had not journeyed with the Fellowship on their quest years before, she knew it had been Legolas that had pulled the other eight through many tough and hopeless times with his unsquashable spirit. Just the thought of never seeing his smiling face or hearing the melodious rise and fall of his flitting laugh was enough to embitter the soul to the cruelty and unfairness of the world. 

Trying hard to keep her composure, if only for the sake of Aragorn at her side, Arwen desperately sought for something else to turn her attention on. Anything but the blond warrior prince of Mirkwood. It was still too painful...

But unable to totally expel Legolas from her thoughts, the elven princess found herself instead measuring the devastation that had followed in the wake of his untimely death. There was no one in her father's house that had escaped the pain and torment of Legolas' death. But some had been undone more than others... 

Arwen could still vividly remember the heart-wretching scene when she and the rest of the somber party of mourners had met Toreingal, Gimli, and Mithrandir at the gates of the city to tell them of the tragedy that had befallen their ill comrade while the three had been away on their desperate mission to find a cure for Legolas. Haunting her memory was the utter horror and disbelief on her friends' faces when her father had presented Toreingal, the closest surviving member of Legolas' family there, with his cousin's weapons. The elf's anguished cries when they had come upon him at the feet of Legolas' body still echoed in her ears. 

Nothing anyone said seemed to offer Toreingal any comfort in his delirium of grief, or proved able to tear him from his cousin's side. The elf had wept bitterly for hours, even into the first cold hours of the night. It was only as the torches of the palace were being lit did his anguished wails finally subside. But he still did not rise from the cold stone floor. Instead he had then fallen eerily quiet, and just sat there, staring past Legolas' lifeless body with empty eyes as if he himself had died in some small way. 

In what seemed like a shock-induced trance, Toreingal continued to sit there at Legolas' feet, unmoving and silent like a statue. Several times, some of the elves that had accompanied Legolas and him to Rivendell had come and tried to remove their lord to quieter quarters. And each time they had been met with the same reaction: nothing. Their plaintive requests to escort Toreingal back to his room only fell on deaf ears. The stubborn elf refused to rise and be lead away. Elrond himself had even tried to gently coax the distraught elf into seeking rest, but Toreingal acknowledged no one's presence. He just continued to sit there and stare ahead towards the body of his dead cousin. Wandering alone in the darkness of his despair, Toreingal had simply shut out the world, refusing to accept harsh reality just yet. And so, after several failed and frustrating attempts, they had finally given up and left the elf where he was to grieve in his own way. And as Toreingal remained oblivious to the rest of the world in his trance of depression and gloom, he never once noticed the small band of other mourners that had also taken up their positions around the low dais supporting the death-laden altar of Legolas. 

Standing in a huddle for most of that dark day, the Hobbits' soft, barely chocked back sobs weaved a tune of grief as Toreingal's anguished wails sang of their loss. Not even bribed with dinner would they leave. The half-lings only tore themselves away from their cold and silent friend's side when Gandalf had finally ordered them to bed, several hours before midnight. Too weary with grief to contest with the wizard's point that there was nothing they could do for Legolas now, the four had reluctantly relinquished their vigil and retired for the night. 

But while the dispirited Hobbits had been able to be persuaded to leave Legolas' body, Gandalf and Elrond were confronted with yet another hard case...namely Aragorn.

Arwen again stole a glance at the sullen man that walked beside her with piteous eyes, studying the Ranger's grim face as she remembered the way Aragorn had stood there so silently in the far corner of the wide room that housed his friend's lifeless body under its high arched ceilings; hiding, it seemed, in the shadows from the others that grieved around him. At first, Arwen had attributed the Ranger's quietness to the first stages of grieving, still trying to come to grips with what had befallen. But after standing faithfully by Aragorn's side for the long and countless hours he lurked there in his dark shadows of grief beside Legolas, Arwen had finally realized that tainting the man's sorrow was, in fact, the dark and lingering sting of guilt. 

Though she knew not why, the elven princess could sense in Aragorn a certain sense of self-blame that practically radiated out from his empty grey eyes. Though troubled by this, she did not try to wrestle an explanation from the distraught man, knowing it would profit her little. She knew Aragorn needed to heal a bit more before he would finally speak of his grief.

Subconsciously giving Aragorn a reassuring squeeze on his hand as she thought of this, Arwen tried to give the man in that single, gentle but firm touch the reassurance that she was there for him whenever he finally decided to speak and cast off his clock of mourning. 

But if Aragorn felt Arwen's touch or not, he did not acknowledge it. He continued to stare down at the carpeted floor beneath him as he trudged on, head bent towards the ground. 

Finally, after several more minutes of walking in silence, the pair could see their destination approaching. Spilling out into the darkened hallway, a beam of dim grey light shined, A wide room spanned out before them as the elf and man came up on the threshold of the room, flanked on either side by tall, heavy oak doors decorated with delicately craved trees and richly inlaid with precious jewels. 

Striding between the two sentinels of wood, Aragorn and Arwen slipped into the wide chamber without a sound. Arwen had to suppress a sigh a the sweet and heavy scent of incense reached her nose. There, laying on his altar of stone on the far side of the empty room in exactly the same manner they had left him, was Legolas' body. 

His golden hair gleamed faintly beneath his head in the gloomy grey light spilling into the room, and a dim, translucent glow seemed to shine from off the elf's exposed skin. But while some may have saw this unearthly glow and testified that Legolas yet lived, it was a falsehood of hope. Even when slain in battle, the bodies of the Eldar would still shine with this light. It was their waning inner fire, the glow of their immortal souls that had made up the very essence in life before being extinguished forever. It was as though even in death, the Elves were too stubborn to relinquish their spirit so quickly. But soon, as all things that are touched by the cold fingers of Death, the glow would fade and Legolas' skin would become like that of a mortal's: dull and lusterless. It was only a matter of time... Perhaps a day or two more at most before the last of the elf's stolen immortality finally faded away into nothingness. 

As the two mourners crossed the vast expanse of empty space, Arwen could feel Aragorn beginning to pull back on their interlocked elbows as he suddenly began to slow that closer he came to Legolas, as if hesitant to near the lifeless body of his closest friend. And then, several paces from the low dais, the Ranger finally halted completely, leaving a small berth of space between him and Legolas. 

Raising his head for the first time since entering, Aragorn looked out from behind a tangle of dark eyelashes towards the motionless body of his friend, letting his eyes come to fall on the peacefully cast features of the elf's face. Standing there silently beside her lover, Arwen was startled when Aragorn suddenly shifted his grey, red-rimmed eyes from the lifeless body to her and spoke in a low, croaking voice. "He looks so peaceful..."

Grouping for a suitable response, Arwen replied, "He does... It is almost like he is only sleeping..." The elven princess' words were automatic and were not exactly the wittiest thing she had ever uttered. But because of the fact that this was the first time Aragorn had spoken in a full, thought-out sentences in almost two days, she really didn't care. In her excitement to keep the man talking, fearing that he might fall away from her again and sink back into his trance-like depression if he did not, Arwen desperately tried to coax Aragorn into a conversation, speaking the first thing that came to mind.

"Did you sleep well last night?" she asked randomly in her most innocent voice, trying to mask the tension in her voice. She could almost predict what Aragorn's answer would be judging by the dark rings under his sunken eyes.

"Nay, my Lady," Aragorn answered quietly with a sigh, "I can find no rest from the sins I bear..." Again the man's eyes wandered over towards the inert body of the warrior prince.

Immediately taken aback by this response, the dark-haired maiden pondered the ominous words of the Ranger. "What do you mean, my love? What sins could you possible bear? Legolas' death was not your fault. You cannot be blamed for what happened to him. You did everything in your power to aid Legolas even when all hope seemed lost. You were there by his side through all his suffering, letting him know he was not alone and that you were there for him. There was nothing more you could have done..." 

A mirthless, empty sound that seemed to be an attempt at a chuckle broke from Aragorn's lips at this, filled with the bitterness of one looking back on the irony of his misfortune. 

"No," he dismissed sternly with a sorry shake of his head, "No. Do not glorify my actions in such an honorable light. I may have stayed by Legolas' side through out much of his suffering, but I betrayed him in the end."

As if some dam had suddenly broken in his heart, words began to pour from out of his mouth like a guilty confession, "I abandoned him just before he died – when he needed me most... I saw the pain and hopelessness in his eyes. I saw the torment he suffered, and was cowed by the fact that there was nothing I could do to free him of it. I left – nay, I abandoned Legolas! When I should have been there at his side. He died alone, without anyone there to comfort him in his finally moments of life..."

By now, tears were brimming along Aragorn's eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks any moment. His voice was steadily becoming more unstable and frenzied in pitch. "Right before I left, Legolas was practically begging me to stop the pain! Arwen, if you had seen him, you would have wept with pity! Never in my life have I ever seen Legolas reduced to such a wretched state! His eyes... Ai! Elbereth! His eyes were so full of pain, I could not bear to see it any longer! I abandoned him! I left Legolas when a truer friend would have stayed there by his side and seen it through till the end! But not I! I fled! I fled like a coward! Legolas would not have done such a thing if our places had been reversed! I could not even find the courage in myself to sit there by his side and comfort him in his death throes! I have no right to have ever been called his friend!"

Emptied of all the vile contempt he held for himself, Aragorn could do nothing more than hide his face behind shaking hands as he broke down and fought to hold back his helpless sobs. The man's shoulders shook violently as he swayed on his feet, blinded by his grief. He barely even felt Arwen's arms wrap around him in a comforting embrace. Tears were also streaming down her fair cheeks as she took the man into her outstretched arms. Grasping Arwen as though she was the only thing that tethered him to sanity, Aragorn tightly clasped the elven princess to his chest, burying his face into her shoulder as he wept uncontrollably. Both stood there, locked in each others arms, sharing in each others pain and sorrow. 

"Aragorn, it wasn't your fault... It wasn't your fault..." Arwen whispered into the hysterical man's ear, trying to fight back her own tears of grief as she rocked Aragorn back and forth in her embrace like one trying to comfort a crying child, "You went to find father. You left Legolas to help him... But you did not abandon him. It wasn't your fault. We all tried to help him as best we could. You probably did more for Legolas than anyone else here. He knew you were there for him. You cannot blame yourself... Legolas wouldn't have wanted that. You must not blame yourself. It wasn't your fault..." 

"He can't be gone!" Aragorn cried helplessly, his voice muffled in the thick dark waves of Arwen's hair. "He just can't be!" 

"But he is, Aragorn. He is. Legolas is gone..." The elven princess chocked, grief seeped into every syllable, "There's nothing we can do to bring him back."

"But what do we do now? What do we do without Legolas?"

"Move on..." she answered, gently pulling Aragorn's head against hers so they stood cheek to cheek, letting their tears mingle together.

Pulling sharply away from the woman, Aragorn looked Arwen straight in the eye, his tears momentarily forgotten in disbelief. "Move on...?"

"Yes, my love," she affirmed with a solemn nod of her head, her beautiful face grave and dignified even when twisted with sorrow and her pale grey eyes glistening with tears. "We all must move on. Legolas is gone, and there is nothing we can do to change that. Dwarves and Elves now stand on the brink of war. Middle-earth needs you more than ever now that Legolas is dead. Aragorn, we need you. Yes, you should mourn for him, for his death is a great loss... But you must see past your grief and prevent more death and bloodshed. You must do this for Legolas – for his memory. He didn't want to be the cause of this war. Would you let Legolas' memory be stained with blood?" The she-elf's imploring gaze bored into Aragorn soul, piercing through his grief and forcing his eyes open to what still lay before him. "Will you not honor Legolas' final wish and prevent the deaths of more innocent lives? Isn't that what he would have wanted you to do?"

For a moment Aragorn stood there silent and dumbstruck by the elf's words, feeling the sudden urge to shrug Arwen's arms from off of him and scream at her how she didn't understand the words she said, or how great of a loss Legolas' death really was. Didn't she know how great of a friend and companion Legolas had been? What right did she have to tell him how he should grieve for him? How did she know what Legolas would have wanted? Didn't she even realize how badly he had betrayed Legolas...? 

But while a storm of emotions and thoughts raged in the man's grief stricken mind, deep down he knew she spoke the truth. Heaving a weary sigh, Aragorn felt coherence and helpless acceptance return to him. Slowly stepping forward the man wrapped his arms back around his immortal lover, simply needing the feel her comforting embrace around his neck. As he let the sweet smell of Arwen's hair fill his nose, Aragorn closed his eyes tightly, desperately trying to fight back a fresh wave of sorrow that washed through him. But while still overcome with grief, he now felt able to stay a new flood of tears with Arwen there sharing his pain. 

"I will miss him..." he murmured despairingly in a soft whisper, as if as an apology for how he had acted. 

"So will I. We all will... But we must move on. Legolas wouldn't have wanted to see us so broken up over him..." Arwen agreed sorrowfully, her face buried into Aragorn's shoulder. 

Aragorn made no immediate reply, thinking of all those the light-hearted elf had left behind. "Where is Toreingal?" he asked in a quiet voice, suddenly realizing the northern wood-elf was not there in the room with them. "I did not think he would ever leave Legolas' side."

"He wouldn't have. But father forced him to drink a glass of tea last night, only Toreingal didn't know he had slipped some sleeping herbs into it... Mithrandir and father then ordered him to be taken to a spare room. He should be asleep for most of the day..." 

Aragorn could not help but stifle a small smile that sprung unbidden to his tear streaked face. Leave it to Elrond and Gandalf to pull such a devious and underhanded tactic as drugging someone insensate like that when all other skills of persuasion failed them. But then again, they would have probably resorted to the same thing with him, had he not finally let Arwen lead him away to his room sometime in the very early hours of morning. 

But the momentary mirth of the account only made him all the more bitter to life as he remembered just why such a thing had had to be done. If great care was not taken with Legolas' cousin, Toreingal might yet fall into the grips of a dark depression, which could ultimately prove fatal to the grieving elf. 

As Aragorn stood there hugging the elven princess tightly against his chest in a mutual exchange of comfort, the man closed his eyes, trying to only remember Legolas as he had been, strong and brave; not as the tortured elf he had had to watch suffering in undescribable pain. Then, suddenly, in the distant, the sound of hurried footsteps sounded, breaking the anguished man out of his thoughts as they drew nearer and began to slow at the doors of the great room where Legolas had been laid out. Reluctantly loosening his grip around Arwen's waist for appearance sake of not being caught in such an intimate moment, the two broke apart and turned to address the new comers. Aragorn managed to wipe a hand across his sun-tanned face to dry his tears and collect himself before their unexpected guests entered. 

Materializing from out of the darkened hallway, the tall and noble figure of Lord Elrond and the white robed wizard Gandalf stridded into the room, both sets of ancient eyes shining with a distinct urgency in them. Their swift footsteps were filled with direct purpose as they made a straight line for Aragorn and Arwen. 

"Is something amiss, father?" Arwen asked delicately, sensing the uneasiness in the half-elf's stride. 

"Perhaps..." Gandalf interjected with one of his infamous half-riddles as he and Elrond came to a halt in front of the Ranger and elf-maiden.

"Have either of you seen Gimli today?" Elrond asked tensely, coming straight to the point. 

"No..." Aragorn heard Arwen's apprehensive reply from beside him. 

Aragorn's heart clenched at the mention of the dwarf, and he immediately realized he had completely forgotten about his bearded companion during his bout of unconsolable grief. The man felt almost ashamed for this lapse of memory. While he had been selfishly wallowing in his own sorrow, he had again managed to abandon one of his friends.

Out of all those mourning Legolas' death, no one – not even Aragorn – could have claimed to have shared a deeper friendship with the elven prince than the dwarf Gimli had. At times it had been as if the two could almost anticipate each others words and actions; making them deadly together in battle and resulting in some of the most amusing cross-racial banter anyone could have ever wished to overhear. And the fact that such a profound bond had been forged between members of two of the most venomously opposed races in Middle-earth made the unlikely friendship all the more special and unique. 

But what would Gimli do now in his anguished grief, knowing his closest and most cherished friend had died in agonizing pain and torment while waiting for him to return with a cure? 

Aragorn didn't even want to think about it. His own guilt had nearly driven him mad. He couldn't even imagine what Gimli was going through; the guilt, the sorrow, or the knowledge that the one person he could have turned to in his anguish that would have truly understood his pain was dead...

~Oh, Gimli... I failed to be there when someone needed me again. First for Legolas, and now for you... Is it my fate to abandon all those I hold dear?~ 

Suddenly, the man realized his thoughts had drifted and that the room had grown extremely quiet and that Elrond, Gandalf, and Arwen were all looking at him with expectant expressions. 

"Well, Aragorn...?" Elrond prompted, eyeing his foster-son with his ancient grey eyes. The Ranger could almost feel the elf-lord trying to see inside his head. 

Startled out of his revery, the man quickly shook his head and said, "No, father. I have not seen Gimli since last night." 

Elrond and Gandalf both exchanged furtive, unreadable glances to each other. 

"What is wrong? Has something happened to Gimli?" Aragorn demanded, becoming increasingly worried by these strange inquiries as to the dwarf's whereabouts. 

Sighing, the white wizard answered in a hushed voice, "It seems as though our ax wielding friend has come up missing. He cannot be found anywhere within the halls of Lord Elrond."

"We must find Gimli quickly," Elrond interjected with an unmistakable tone of urgency in his sonorous voice, "King Thranduil's has just been reported by some of our remote scouts to have been seen crossing the eastern border of Imladris, heading straight for Rivendell. Gimli and the other dwarves here are in grave danger. Thranduil is moving with a large military escort. He is reported to have at least a hundred or more soldiers with him." 

Aragorn and Arwen drew collective breaths of shock and dread. Thranduil was already moving to wage his war on the Dwarves, starting right here in Rivendell with Gimli and those that had accompanied him to the reunion of the Fellowship. 

"When will they arrive?" Aragorn questioned, feeling the urgency of the situation dispelling his melancholy and replacing it with the more familiar and foreboding sense of coming battle. 

"Depending on how hard he pushes his army, Thranduil could reach Rivendell in four days, maybe even less," the half-elf replied in his characteristic calm and collected voice, even with this impending threat looming over them, "That is why we must find Gimli. He and his company must flee Rivendell. They cannot stay here or it will be a massacre. We can hide the dwarves in one of the smaller mountain villages west of here until I can talk some sense into Legolas' father..." 

The strained tone in Elrond's voice did not go unmarked by the others as he trailed off slightly at the mention of the young Sindarian elf. 

~I do not know if I will be able to calm Thranduil's rage or grief. What will I say to him? I cannot even imagine the pain of losing a child. I do not know what I would do if I ever lost Elladan, Elrohir, or Arwen...~ Subconsciously, the ancient healer stole a quick glance at his daughter, trying to hide his own doubts of his ability to stave the grieving father from seeking retribution for his son's death. 

Perhaps sensing Elrond's inner turmoil, Gandalf quickly stepped in and said with an uneasy tap of his staff on the ground, "That is why we must find Gimli. If he is to escape Thranduil's wrath, we must hurry and get them away into one of the outlying villages under Lord Elrond's rule and protection. It will be easier to protect the dwarves if Thranduil does not know their whereabouts."

"But he cannot be found," elaborated the elf-lord, a fleeting tone of exasperated helplessly tainting his voice, "I have already sent out guards to search the city for him, but I fear Gimli may be beyond our protection now..."

Suddenly, from the darkened hallway, the quick, echoing footsteps of someone approached the great room where the small group stood sounded. Emerging into the dim grey light, the blond haired figure of Elrond's captain of the guard, Glorfindel, hurried into the room, an unnatural aura of uneasiness surrounding the normally regal elf. 

"My lord," he greeted breathlessly as he gave a hasty bow to Elrond and then stood at attention before his liege. 

"Have you found any trace of the dwarf Gimli, Glorfindel?" the elven king asked with the smallest hint of hopefulness in his inquiring voice.

"Nay, my Lord," the golden-haired Balrog-slayer replied with a rueful shake of his head, "Every building in the city and palace has been searched, but we cannot find him..."

"Where could he have gone?" Arwen pondered quietly to herself, worry creasing her fair face.

"While we were searching for Master Gimli, one of the guards reported that there was a horse missing from the palace stables," Glorfindel then suddenly said, offering this new clue to the puzzle, "It was the one he had taken on his journey into the mountains..."

A tense silence stung the ears of all those sanding there in the wide, grey lit room. "Do you think Gimli left Rivendell to escape Thranduil without letting any of us know?" the raven haired princess directed towards her father. 

"I do not know, Arwen," he sighed with a grim frown, "Did he not think we would protect him? But if that was the case, how did he know Thranduil was already marching towards Rivendell? I only received the confirmed report of Thranduil's army this morning from an urgent message from one of the outer units of guards on the eastern border... There was no way for Gimli to have known he was in such eminent danger."

"Perhaps he did not flee..." Gandalf suddenly murmured under his breath, more to himself than any of the others present. Tugging at the end of his long white beard, the wizard stared at the motionless body of the elven warrior, Legolas, on the far side of the room with a distant and thoughtful expression chiseled onto his face.

"What do you mean, Mithrandir?" Elrond implored urgently. 

"I mean I do not think Gimli left Rivendell to run from Thranduil and his army. Like you yourself said, Lord Elrond, he could not have known Legolas' father was coming. I believe he may be heading east, into the mountains..." the Maia muttered with his answer left open-ended as usual as if purposely trying to force his audience to ask him to elaborate. 

Knowing Gandalf's method of answering a simple question with elusive half-answers and riddles, Elrond pushed back a surge of annoyance for having to play the wizard's game, and asked between gritted teeth of feigned patience, "And why would he be traveling east, Mithrandir?"

"Because I fear Gimli has left in a last ditch effort to save Legolas."

"But how does he plan to do such a thing?" Aragorn broke in and demanded incredulously, dismayed by his friend's hopelessness in such an impossible venture. 

"By seeking out the sorceress Eronel..." Gandalf finally said, leaving his audience speechless and with mixed expression of numbed shock and horror on their faces. 

*************

_The world had become nothing more than an obscure blur in Gimli's eyes. Lost in a frenzied state of desperation and grief, the dwarf careened through the lush green forest around him, driven by one single desperate hope. Trees whipped past him wildly as his sweat-lathered horse frantically galloped at full speed, its legs a blur beneath it as it weaved in and out of the thick trunks, the green and brown of the forest swirling in a menage of color. 

_Crashing through the lush undergrowth, Gimli rode blindly forward, heedless of any obstacle in his path as he spurred his struggling mount faster. The dwarf pushed ahead recklessly, hardly even acknowledging the exhausted horse as it stumbled on an unseen root and nearly threw its rider to the ground. But instead of slowing after this near accident, Gimli only kicked the tired creature in its ribs, urging for more speed, desperate to recover the few precious seconds they had just lost. For a day and a night straight now he had kept this pace, pushing his horse mercilessly onwards through the treacherous mountain passes of Imladris towards the hidden valley of the elven sorceress Eronel... 

And for that day and night, he had been seized by a fit of delirious grief. Gimli's shattered mind could only focus on one thing, one person, one grief: Legolas. 

_He couldn't escape the haunting image of the dead elf's body laying there so still and quiet on an altar of stone no matter how fast he urged his horse onward. Ever since returning to Rivendell from his mission to find Legolas a cure for the poison slowly killing him, and then finding his elven friend dead, Legolas had possessed Gimli's thoughts and consumed his mind like an unshakable obsession. He couldn't rid himself of that single image or the utter horror and despair of when he had found his friend dead. 

They had been too late¼ It was all his fault. Legolas had trusted them to return with a cure, but they had been too late¼ He was dead. Dead! It just couldn't be possible! Legolas couldn't die! He was immortal and one of the strongest warriors in all of Middle-earth! He just couldn't be gone, smote so easily as by such a small cut on his finger¼ But he was...

_The grief was unbearable. Gimli could barely keep himself upright on the on the moving horse beneath him. The dwarf's thick reddish beard was tangled and its braid's disarrayed and ratty from neglect to groom it for several days now. Gimli's proud facial hair was soaked with tears that continued to seep from his eyes unceasingly. The only thing that kept him from going insane was the fragile hope that he might somehow change all this, bring Legolas back. 

The imprisoned witch said she could help Legolas... Maybe she still could. Gimli did not know the extent of Eronel's magic, but surely such a powerful sorceress could bring Legolas back. It was the only hope he had...

Gimli managed to wrestle his thoughts away from the elf for a moment and looked around at the surrounding forest. The trees seemed taller and more lush than they had from the other mountain woods he had sped through to get to this serene and secluded valley. The air seemed wreathed in ancient magic by a light, misty fog that hovered low on the ground, coating the area in a ghostly ambiance. Dark clouds hung heavy and pregnant in the sky overhead, but the rain had dwindled away to nothing almost immediately after passing through the narrow gap in a rock face about a quarter an hour ago. A thick heaviness pervaded the air and the dwarf swore he could feel the eyes of some unseen presence watching him. And a strange, unnerving silence stung his ears. 

He was close... He was so close now...

The course he traveled now was not the same as the one he, Toreingal, and Gandalf had taken before. This one was smoother and less rocky, but the unnatural stillness of the forest was unmistakable; he could almost feel Eronel nearby, watching his approach. 

Giving his panting horse another sharp jab in the ribs with his stubby legs, Gimli drove forward, desperate to reach Eronel's cave and beg her assistance to restore Legolas to life. But before the dwarf even knew what was happening, he felt his elven-bred steed falter. Wickering, the mare suddenly stumbled on the uneven ground and pitched forward, its body weight thrown off balance by its charging momentum.

Vaulted out of his saddle, Gimli toppled through the air like a rag doll before he finally came to a crashing halt as his stout body collided with the hard forest floor. Cursing madly, the dwarf scrambled to his feet, groping for his fallen ax that had been retched out of his grip at some point during his mid-air acrobatics. A little bit shaken but for the most part uninjured by the accident, he stood on unsteady legs and shot a scathing glare at the chestnut mare. 

The haggard beast stood with its head bent nearly to the ground, its nose almost grazing the green vegetation blanketing the forest floor. Sweat coated its chest and flanks like a frothy soap. Its sides heaved for air. The proud elven steed looked a second away from collapsing from exhaustion. 

"Damn horse!" Gimli snarled menacingly, stalking back over to the ragged beast and snatching the dangling reigns from out of the air. "Come on," he ordered, tugging roughly on the ropes of leather and trying to drag the tired animal. 

But the horse could go no further. It had run for almost a whole day straight, covering almost fifty miles of untamed, harsh tracks of land through the Misty Mountains, all the while carrying a particularly heavy dwarf on its back without food, rest, or water. It had had enough. 

Refusing to budge from where it stood, the horse merely gave a weak snort as the dwarf continued to vainly pull and tug at its head, all the while cursing unintelligently about beasts of burden. 

"Move you flea bitten excuse of a horse! Move! We're almost there! MOVE!!" The half pleading cries of the grief-ridden dwarf echoed though the silent forest around him until finally fading into the distance. 

Finally, the reigns could no longer take the strain of the frantically pulling of the dwarf and the unrelenting fastidiousness of the horse. With a sharp snap, the reigns flew apart in two separate pieces, sending Gimli sprawling to the ground, spread-eagle. 

Momentarily winded by his ungraceful tumble, Gimli sat up, sputtering an angry string of curses in both dwarfish and common speech that were so vile in context, they could have made even the roughest of men blush to the tips of his ears. Heaving himself to his feet, the dwarf stood trembling with anger and frustration, his hands balled together in fists at his sides. Irritably, Gimli finally accepted the fact that no amount of curses or brute strength was going to extricate the exhausted horse from that spot. All his efforts would be vain and fruitless and only a waste of even more precious time. Scanning the surrounding forest aimlessly as if some other form of transportation would magically appear, Gimli felt tears of frustration and helplessness welling up in his small dark eyes. 

He was so close! But the blasted horse wouldn't move! He had to reach Eronel. She was his only hope of saving Legolas. 

Biting back a surge of hysterical desperation, the dwarf knew he would have to push on ahead alone on his own power. If Gimli had been in any other state of mind, he might have taken the opportunity ro make some snide comment about how he could have traveled the whole distance by himself on his own two legs without the assistance of one of those overrated animals elves always used to port their lazy bodies around with. But he was beyond such pride now. The devastation of Legolas' death had shaken his spirits too much for that. 

Spitting one final curse at the exhausted animal, Gimli turned sharply on his heels and plunged ahead into the surrounding thicket of trees in a stumbling run. The trunks of the ancient and towering trees whipped past him as he stumbled over protruding roots and loose rocks. His breath came in quick, hitching sobs as he ran madly onward, letting the grief and anguish of Legolas' death swell and consumed his ind again. 

~Legolas... Hold on, please... Eronel will help you. She can bring you back. She said she could. She has to! She will help. She will help she will helpshewillhelpshewillhelp....~

Battling the fatigue of his weary body, Gimli struggled over a particularly large log blocking his path. Biting back the sharp stinging in his cramping leg muscles, the dwarf scrambled over the log and stumbled on, barely even giving himself time to catch his breath. He could feel his body wearing down, though he fought to press on. The last several days he had lived with little food and even less sleep, and the distress and strain of traveling such a long distance to save the life of his friend was finally beginning to wear down the dwarf's stamina and endurance. 

But he couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he was so close. He had to go on. He owed it to Legolas. The elf's only hope lay with the imprisoned sorceress Eronel and her promise to Gimli that she could save the elven warrior-prince. 

Though driven half mad with grief and blame for Legolas' death, Gimli's stubborn dwarfish nature refused to be stamped out. He refused to submit to exhaustion when Legolas' only chance of redemption was so near at hand.

The ground was beginning to gradually rise in slope. The soft, rich soil of the forest floor had begun to become more rocky and steep. The mist-wreathed trees were beginning to thin out, giving way to more room though their leafy canopy still blotted out the grey, cloud packed sky overhead. The air was heavier and harder to breath, as though filled with a thick presence in the air. 

Consumed in a maelstrom of desperate hopes, Gimli tore through the dense foliage of the lush green forest of Eronel's secluded mountain valley like a madman. The crashing of his weary and faltering gait echoed through the silent silvan scene louder than what a whole band of orcs could have made.

The dwarf seemed to blunder aimlessly ahead with no set direction in mind. In all honesty, he knew not where the enchanted waterfall of Eronel's guarded cave stood for cert, or where exactly in the remote mountain valley he even was. But in some far corner of his mind he knew he was heading in the right direction. It felt as though there was some kind of invisible string tied to him, pulling him ever forward; as though a tiny voice in the back of his head was beckoning to him just beyond the edge of his consciousness, "Come to me... Yes, this way..."

Heeding this unfounded instinct, Gimli just ran, letting his feet fly beneath him. 

~Legolas... Just hold on... I'll bring you back. I'll bring you back no matter what the cost... Eronel will help...~

Suddenly, from somewhere up ahead, the soft tinkle of falling water caught the emotionally distraught dwarf's ears. Pushing more effort into his already stinging legs, Gimli stumbled towards the sound, his heavy boots dragging clumsily across the mossy, rock strewn forest floor. 

In the near distance, a lighter shade of grey light filtered through the thick green canopy of green leaves overhead. The trees seemed to be thinning out more and more the nearer he got to the trickling cascade of falling water. Coming to the edge of the main body of surrounding trees, Gimli suddenly burst from out of the stinging silence of the forest and into a small clearing filled with a peacefully serene waterfall. In front of the curtain of the clear mountain spring, a deep, crystal clear pond stretched out, almost twenty feet in diameter. A fine mist hung in the air and around the base of the bubbling stream of water as it tumbled into the pond's basin. 

Staggering over the feathery moss covering the few rocks spotting the sandy banks of the pond, Gimli fell to his knees, too exhausted and weary with grief to stand any longer. 

"Eronel!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, shattering the peaceful calm of the heavy air, "ERONEL!!" 

The ringing of his desperate call echoed into the misty forest around him before fading away into nothing. A stinging silence hung over everything as Gimli knelt prostrate on the ground, waiting for something to happen. What exactly he was waiting for he did not know. The only sound that pierced the air was the soft tinkle of the small waterfall, its cascading waters sounding like falling diamonds as the gurgling water ran over the rocks at its foot. The rushing of Gimli's blood pounded in his ears as he tried to still his breath.

Gimli sat there on the mossy banks of the mirror like pond in breathless anticipation for what seemed like ages, waiting for a sign from the elven sorceress that she had heard his cry. But nothing happened. Nothing came to him except the resounding sting if empty silence. 

~Where is she? Why won't Eronel come to me?~ Gimli's grief racked mind wailed in his head. ~I have to find her! She is the only one that can save Legolas!~

Gimli's eyes raked across the pond wildly, searching for any sign of the imprisoned witch's face on its glass like surface. He remembered how she had projected her image to him when he had first come to this enchanted waterfall and hidden valley. But there was nothing, only the silvery white shimmer of water in the pale grey light of the overcast sky. 

A sinking suspicion and doubt began to creep along Gimli's spine. ~Why will she not come to me...? Is she unable to help me? Or was it all a false hope... a fool's dream? What if she never did really come to me before? What if her promise to me was nothing more than a figment of my imagination when I knew that the magic water would not cure Legolas? Oh, Aule! I am a fool! Legolas is gone – dead! And it is all my fault! There is nothing I can do to save him now... I failed him...~ 

The dwarf's final shred of hope dissolved as he sat in the moist soil of the pond's edge. With nothing more to hold onto, Gimli broke down. His ax slip from his hand and fell useless at his side, clattering on a nearby rock by his knee as he covered his bearded and travel-worn face with his dirty gloves. A racking sob escaped his throat as he huddled into himself trying to contain the grief and anguish of his defeat. His shoulders began to shake as he sank lower to the ground. 

~Why did I come here? Why? I should have known there was nothing I could have done to save Legolas...~ 

Burying himself in his personal hell, Gimli hardly even registered the chill of cold air on the back of his neck as he wallowed in his despair. The air around him suddenly felt colder, as if a frigid breeze had blow through the small glade, though there was no movement of air or sound of wind.

*Gimli....* The voice came like a distant whisper in the back of Gimli's mind, bringing him out of his depression enough to startle him into rising his head from his hands several inches. The dwarf sat frozen in place, desperately waiting to hear the delicate feminine voice again to assure himself he was not dreaming. *Master dwarf... I have been waiting. Your coming here was not in vain... I can help. Legolas is not yet totally lost...*

"Eronel..." Gimli stuttered in recognition. A mixture of disbelief, utter joy, and relief stormed his head as he tried to fight back a surge of emotions at the imprisoned witch's sudden appearance.

Trying to place the voice that seemed to resonate out of the very air itself, Gimli swung his head around, as if expecting for the elven sorceress to be found on the pond's very shores right beside him. Finding the banks empty of all living life, the dwarf's searching eyes finally roamed over to the glassy surface of the pond. 

There on the silvery glass water, the fair face of Eronel stared back at Gimli, her piercing and disarming blue eyes gazing into the dwarf's very soul. She did not appear any different than the first time he had looked down onto her and momentarily mistaken Eronel for the fair Lady of the Woods, Galadriel. 

"Eronel..." Gimli said dumbly, shocked to find her there on the pond's surface just when he had thought all hope was lost. 

*I know why you have come...* she said, cutting him off abruptly as if she could see into his very mind and read his thoughts. Eronel's watery image mouthed her words in perfect unison to the voice in Gimli's head though no sound came from the pond's surface itself. Her blue eyes bore into Gimi's until it felt as though he was lost in their stunning sapphire depths. *Prince Legolas is dead...* she said, in a tone that was not asking a question but stating a known fact. 

"Yes," the dwarf chocked in confirmation, fresh tears welling in the corner of his eyes at the mention of his poisoned companion and friend.

*And you have now come to seek my aid when the enchanted water of my prison did not arrive in time to save him...* 

"Yes..." Gimli nodded in guilty admission, "Please. Can you still help him? Can you bring him back?" There was an underlying note of pleading in his voice as he crouched lower over the pond's edge towards Eronel's image wavering there before him on the glassy surface. 

* I can. It is not beyond my power to restore life to him. But I must be set free first to perform the necessary spell to do it and reverse the poison's effect...*

Gimli immediately paused, weighing the sorceress words carefully. Even though driven half-mad with guilt and desperation to bring his best friend back to life, he had not forgotten the story Elrond had told them all concerning Eronel's dark past. 

"What guarantee do I have that you will do as you promise after I release you from your prison?" he asked warily, an edge of suspicion in his husky voice.

For a moment, Eronel's gaze sharpened and her fair face fell blank and unreadable, as if she were deciding how to respond to this implied accusation to some treachery she might be contriving. Finally, a saddened expression melted across her porcelain doll like face. *I am plotting no treachery, Master Gimli* she said in an almost hurt voice, *I merely wish to right the wrongs my past sins have done to hurt innocent lives...I want to help Prince Legolas. I am the only one that can save him now...*

Gimli sat there staring at Eronel's watery face in a moment of indecision. Her response sounded genuine enough, and he was desperate to bring Legolas back. Had he not felt to pressed for time or weighed by such guilt or grief, he may have pressed for an assurance more heatedly. But as things were, with his mind so dead set on saving the life of his closest friend, Gimli decided that he had no other choice but to trust in Eronel's guarantee and honor.

"What must I do?" the dwarf asked in a whisper, a new sense of hope flooding over him with the prospect of being reunited with Legolas.

*The water flowing in front of my cave must be removed. I cannot touch it. You must find a way to grant me free passage past the water, and then call me out from cave. Only then will the enchantment be broken and I set free...* the echoing voice of the trapped witch answered in the back of the dwarf's mind.

~Remove the water? How can I do such a thing? How does one stop the flow of a waterfall? I would have better luck if she asked me to move a mountain!~ Gimli pondered the riddle quietly to himself, trying to devise a way such a task could be accomplished. It was impossible! 

A sinking feeling seized Gimli's stomach. ~What do I do? If I cannot free Eronel, then Legolas will remain as he is!~ Gimli's frustration began to mount as he racked his brain as to how he could do such a task. 

Scanning the waterfall from top to bottom, Gimli's head spun with the impossible odds of succeeding. The fall was nearly fifteen feet high, flowing over he edge of a jagged cliff face. How was he to move the water away from the mouth of the cave? Could he possibly tunnel a way around the fall and then into the cave itself? No – he would need proper tools besides his ax and he did not have the time for such a venture. Was there some way he could possibly divert the waterfall itself? This seemed the most probable course of action.

Slowly gathering his will and rising to his feet, Gimli surveyed the area. 

~I doubt I can divert the entire flow of the stream, but perhaps I can partially block it so that the water falls along a different part of the cliff...~ Scanning the rim of the cliff face, Gimli noticed a small tree standing apart from the surrounding forest atop the cliff. It was relatively close to edge of the drop and looked like it was near the very side of the stream flowing down the rock face. Perhaps he could fall the tree across the stream's path. 

Resolving himself that that would be his plan, Gimli bent down and retrieved his discarded ax from the moist bank of the pond and turned to look back at the imposing cliff. It was not that high and the cliff itself seemed to have numerous outcrops of rocks that looked large enough to support his weight and provide him with enough hand and foot holds to scale the wall. 

Giving a small sigh of resignation, Gimli hurried around the circular pond to the base of the cliff. Managing to grip both his ax and a jutting section of rock with one hand, the miner grunted as he hoisted himself up to where he could catch the tip of his boot in a small niche in the rocks several feet above the ground. He then reached up his free hand and clutched at another outcropping of rocks. The rocks were a bit slippery with moisture and moss, but not entirely unscalable for the dwarf.

As he scuttled up small cliff in short awkward bursts to the next ledge of rock above, Gimli could not help but mutter under his breath about how Aule had not made dwarves for climbing. In some distant part of his mind, Gimli could not help but wonder what Legolas would say if he ever saw Gimli trying to climb. ~Probably would never let me forget it and then try and get me to come up into one of those blasted trees with him...~ he mused. 

The climb was not long or extremely difficult because of the large outcrops of rock that provided excellent foot holds, but Gimli still found himself gasping for air when he finally pulled himself over the moss draped rim of the cliff and rolled flat onto his back with a final grunt of exertion. Blessing the Valar that he was safely back on level ground, Gimli heaved himself back onto his feet. Glancing over his shoulder down into the small glade, the dwarf paused as he overlooked the silent and motionless pond almost twenty feet below. 

*Hurry, Master Dwarf... There is little time...* Eronel's voice urged from some far corner of his mind.

Remembering his task, Gimli turned and spotted his intended target: a young, bent tree leaning over the small moving stream beside it almost eight feet from the cliff's edge. It was thinner in girth then its larger counterparts Gimli had seen elsewhere in the ancient forest. 

~It can't be much different than slicing an orc in half...~ he assured himself uncertainly. 

Stepping up to the tree, the dwarf gripped he ax firmly in his grip and swung it over his shoulder, readying himself to deliver the first blow to the chocolate brown trunk. Carefully directing his aim, he swung. The blade of his ax connected with the bark of the tree, where the wood splintered under its impact and left a shallow groove in the trunk. Swinging back again, the dwarf continued to hack at the tree, letting the hollow thuds of his labor echo away into the silent forest. Several green leaves fluttered down from above as Gimli continued to pound his ax into the quivering tree's side.

Finally there came a deep groan from the half-cleaved trunk and the whole thing began to tilt to the side, over the gurgling mountain stream beside it. Stepping back, Gimli watched passively as the tree tipped and began to fall in what seemed like slow motion down over the spring. The loud rustle of leaves and snapping twigs rent the heavy silence of the air as the tree crashed horizontally with a loud splash across the water. 

Moving closer to examine his work, Gimli saw the stream partially dammed as the rushed water swelled on the far side of the fallen log. Twin streams of water seeped past the trunk on either side of the fallen tree and continued to fall over the edge, but the main force of the mountain spring had been dammed. Moving closer to the rim of the cliff, Gimli looked down into the small glade below. From his angle it was hard to tell, but even with the two small rushes of water still flowing around his makeshift dam, the waterfall seemed to have been successfully diverted from its normal course and now ran down either side of the cliff. 

*It worked... Come back down and call me out...* Eronel ordered in her disembodied, ghostly voice that sent a small chill down Gimli's spine. 

Edging towards the lip of the mossy cliff, Gimli looked down uncertainly. From the top at this angle, the cliff seemed much steeper than before. He could see none of the footholds and ledges he had used to climb up with. The descent would be more difficult and dangerous now that he would not be able to see where he was pulling his feet. But the other option of following the cliff until it leveled out with the land more for him to just walk down, although safer, would take too much time; though the dwarf had to wonder how fast he actually had to be to help someone who was already dead...

Gulping down the lump in his throat at the sudden mental image of him losing his grip and smashing into the rocks below, the dwarf lowered himself to his knees beside the rim of the cliff and slowly shuffled backwards towards te steep drop until he felt his feet dangle off into empty air. He tightened his grip on the moss covered edge with his hands (one still clutching his ax possessively) as he gingerly lowered one foot down along the uneven rock face. After a few second of prodding, he finally felt his toes catch a ledge large enough to support his weight. Easing himself over the rim, Gimli clasped at the wall. He felt a small jolt of vertigo in the pit of his stomach as gravity tugged at his stout body, trying to pull him down to the ground far below. Now that he was parallel with the rock wall, Gimli found that he could now discern several more ledges farther down the wall as he stole a quick glance down his chest between his body and cliff. Moving slowly and very carefully, the dwarf made his descent back to the sandy shores of the pond. 

When Gimli finally stepped back from the cliff, he could not help but feel a small swell of pride for managing to scale the sheer wall of rock with nothing more to show for his troubles than a few minor scrapes and blisters on his hands and knees. He was also a bit more tired than when he had first set up to climb it. But it was a small price to pay is it was to bring Legolas back. The knowledge that he would soon see his friend alive and well again was enough to dispel the majority of his exhaustion and weariness.

Gimli quickly dashed to the far side of the pond, right in front of the cliff face. Between the two small streams of water that still gushed around the fallen tree trunk damming the mountain spring and down either side of the waterfall's original course, Gimli now saw a cavernous hole hollowed into the side of the small hill of rock. Naked of the waterfall that had once fallen over its entrance, the cave stood like a gaping black mouth of darkness. It looked cold and deep. The dwarf could discern no movement from within beyond the wall of blackness facing him. 

"What must I do now?" Gimli shouted into the stillness of the glade. Without the gentle roar of the enchanted waterfall, the stifling silence of the forest seemed have intensified to deafening volumes.

*There is still a magic barrier keeping me from leaving this cave...* Eronel's ghostly voice said softly from the edge of the dwarf's thoughts, *You must call me out, announcing your consent that I should be allowed to pass through the magic still barring my way. The Elves that imprisoned me here placed an extra magical ban across the entrance of my cave so that I can only leave if given permission by a one who willingly gives their consent that I be freed...*

The dwarf nodded in understanding. 

This was it. Once Eronel was freed, she would restore Legolas and everything would be set right again... Gimli felt almost elated with the knowledge that he would soon be reunited with his elven friend. He sucked in a shaky breath of air to calm his rapidly beating heart. Squaring his shoulders, the dwarf called in his loudest voice, "Eronel! I call you out of your cave. I grant my consent that she be freed from whatever magic still keeping her prisoner within!" 

The heavy silence of the hidden valley filled the air and rang in Gimli's ears as his voice faded into the distance. A blanket of utter stillness covered the land. Nothing stirred under the leafy boughs of the towering trees surrounding the silver pond and the remnants of the waterfall that had once fallen there.

Gimli glanced around uncertainly, a small twinge of panic beginning to grow in the bottom of his stomach. ~Did it not work? Did I do something wrong?~ 

Suddenly, a low rumble coursed through the ground. Startled by this, Gimli looked down at the quivering ground beneath his boots. He could actually see loose dirt dancing up into the air as though some giant being was banging its fists against the underside of the forest floor. The rumble quickly intensified. It soon became a loud roar, crashing like an avalanche of boulders down a mountain side. Ears still sensitive to the complete silence he had endured since entering the valley, Gimli clamped his hands tightly over his ears, trying to shut out the deafening roar. 

The dwarf had to struggle to keep on his feet as the ground quaked violently beneath his feet, but it was like everything was happening at once. The dark overcast sky overhead thickened into a swirling black mass of clouds. Lightening forked across the sky. Deafening thunder crashed. A wild wind whipped through the glade where Gimli stood, beating against his body and sending up a whirlwind of dirt and leaves circling into the air around him. 

Trying to shield his face against the battering wind, Gimli was finally overwhelmed and fell to his knees on the banks of silver pond. The waters' once smooth and glass like surface was now broiling madly again its shores in agitation. Squinting through narrowed eyes, the dwarf saw sparks of energy flashing in the air around him, cracking loudly. Dazzled by the light, Gimli clenched his eyes tightly close as the world around him erupted into chaos. 

And then, through all this turmoil, the sensation of the very air itself being ripped in two overtook the quelled dwarf. It felt as though the very fabric of his being was been stretched apart. Gimli's mouth opened to scream, but whether he actually did or not the dwarf could not say; he could hear nothing over the overwhelming roar of wind and thunder in his ears. 

And just as everything seemed to reach its peak where the noise could roar no louder and the earth could not shake any harder without crumbling away into dust, a blinding flash of white light suddenly exploded. It was like the world had been pulled so taunt that it had finally snapped in two. Following in its wake a powerful concussion wave of force swept out over the land, knocking Gimli flat on the back as the hammering force slammed into his chest. Stunned, the dwarf lay motionless as the howling wind and the earth's rumbling began to die away around him like a passing storm. Half blinded and ears still ringing madly, Gimli slowly eased himself up to sit, totally bewildered by what had just occurred. 

Blinking back the spots dancing in his eyes, the dwarf's swivelled around on his neck, surveying his surroundings. As his vision slowly cleared he suddenly became aware of the falling rain crashing down around him. The soft hiss of it filled his ears. The cold, fat drops of water lashed his face and streamed down into his eyes and beard, soaking his mud-caked clothes to the skin. Gimli shivered slightly as he wiped the cold rain from his face. 

As his eyes finally came into focus, Gimli looked around where he still sat dazed and confused in the mud. He could only gasp in horror at what he saw. 

A sea of dead, skeleton-like trees stretched on for as far as the eye could see around him. Their leafless, bony branched jutted up over the twisted and crippled black trunks like groping hands stretched up pleadingly towards heaven. A shadowy gloom seemed to now hang in the air around the bases of the dead and decrepit trees. The ground was bare and blackened as though scorched by some terrible fire. 

Startled by this sudden change of scenery, Gimli's head snapped down towards the pond beside him, expecting to find it still silver and clear, untouched by whatever pestilence had devoured the hidden valley's once lush green forest. But instead of pure and clean water, the dwarf was meet with a murky brackish sludge. Diseased and sickly brown weeds broke out of the pestilent pond's oily surface along its edge. 

Sickened by the defilement of the beauty that had once surrounded him, Gimli staggered back from the diseased pond, repulsed. His head spun as he stared into the stagnant pool. The stench of wet decay and rot slowly began to waft up and permeate the rainy air. Gimli reflexively gagged as the foul smell filled his nose and coated the back of his throat like a thick tar. His stomach turned in revulsion and he felt as though at any moment he would be sick. 

But as Gimli swayed on his feet, dizzied by the devastation and decay around him, a loud cackling laugh brought the sickened dwarf out of his swoon. Following the sound, Gimli looked to the very center of the muddy bog before him. 

There, hovering several inches above the oily surface of the water, a thin emaciated woman stood tittering with malicious laughter under her breath as she indifferently surveyed the decimated remains of the forest glade around her. Waves of small ripples radiated out across the pond's surface from under the woman's feet to its rounded shores as though a gentle breeze was stirring the water. Her hollow, mirthless chuckles echoed out over the pounding rain in Gimli's ears and sent a cold chill down his spine. 

There was no doubt in Gimli's mind as to who the mysterious woman was. It was Eronel, the imprisoned sorceress he had just set free. Her pointed ears and tall stature were unmistakably elven, but he had not been prepared for what he saw. 

The dwarf stared in dumbfounded shock and revulsion. The elf standing before him was nothing like the fair image of the beautiful maiden he had seen glinting in the enchanted water of the mountain pool. Eronel's long golden hair was dirty and unbrushed, reaching down to the backs of her knees. The filthy tresses hung like a massive nest of knots and tangles over her bony shoulders and down her back. Even from a space of twenty feet or more, Gimli could see wide empty spaces between the black and rotting remains of Eronel's teeth as her head tipped back in sardonic laughter. 

Robed in a long, tattered robe of soiled dark blue, the witch looked thin and half starved. The elf's old fashioned robe hung like a dirty rag wrapped around her emaciated body, showing the ages it had clothed her in the long years of her confinement. Her once clean and radiant porcelain skin was a sickly pale white, completely devoid of the faint but ever present glow of light in her skin that all the other elves Gimli had meet had. Haggard and withered like the forest around her, Eronel nevertheless stood tall and straight, laughing as her eyes came to rest on the dwarf gaping at her from the stagnant pond's side. 

As her ice blue eyes locked with Gimli's, it felt as though a shard of ice had been driven through his heart. Though ugly and wretched in appearance, Eronel's piercing eyes had lost none of their power in the lonely years of isolation she had spent in the black recesses of her dank prison. Gimli immediately felt naked and feeble under the elven sorceress' intense gaze. Burning deep within her piercing blue depths, an inner light danced in Eronel's eyes like the sparks of a smoldering inferno. 

Again, Gimli fell dumbstruck and speechless as he stared open mouthed at the female elf as her malicious laughter slowly faded in her throat and she turned to face the dwarf with an unreadable smile etched across her face, her rotted black teeth bared at him in an almost flirtatious way. 

"What is the matter, Master Dwarf?" she asked, a hint of mockery tainting the title she had just addressed Gimli with, "Does my appearance startle you?" 

"I... I was just expecting you to look a little bit...," Gimli groped for a suitable response that would not seem insulting, "different..." he finally settled on, feeling confident that she had not picked up on the hesitation in his voice. 

"Different..." Eronel mused to herself, a victorious smirk pulling at the corner of her flaccid lips, "Yes, I'm sure you expected me to appear much fairer... The long years I spent in the darkness of my prison have done little for my beauty."

Gimli's eyebrows furled in confusion. "But your face in the water..," he stammered as his eyes shifted between the elven sorceress' wasted face and the surface of the brackish pool she hovered over.

"It was an illusion," she confirmed with another decayed grin, "I know how mystified and foolish you mortals can be when dazzled by beauty. In knew you would hesitate to release me if I appeared to you as wretched as I really am, so I conjured an image as fair and beautiful as that flighty fool of a queen, Galadriel..."

"I would please ask you not to insult the Lady of the Woods in my presence," Gimli growled, bristling with subdued anger at Eronel's careless insult. 

"I see Galadriel has managed to ensnare a dwarf to add to her endless collection of admirers. How proud she must feel..." Eronel quietly commented to herself, openly inviting war with the Lock-Bearer of Galadriel. 

"I did not release you to insult the Lady Galadriel to my face, Eronel," Gimli warned as discreetly as he could, valiantly fighting back the rising anger in his chest. Eronel still had to bring Legolas back. He couldn't risk the chance of getting into a fight with her and incurring her wrath if he wanted her to fulfill her promise of saving Legolas. The rebuking of such disrespectful remarks would have to wait. Right now not even the honor of the fair elven queen was enough to deter Gimli from the single task he had set out to do. "The day is growing short. We must make haste back to Rivendell. It is at least a day and a half's journey, and Legolas is already being prepared for his funeral," the dwarf said, turning to lead the freed sorceress in the direction of the waiting horse he had left behind, "If we do not hurry we may be too late..." *And I doubt I could survive another such occurrence...* he added as a bitter mental afterthought. 

But before Gimli walked even two steps, he froze in place as Eronel's cold laughter broke out anew and chilled his blood. Glancing over his shoulder, Gimli was dismayed to find Eronel unmoved from where she hovered over the very center of the murky, weed chocked pond. The malicious glint in her icy gaze unnerved him. "And what, prey tell, do you find so amusing?" he demanded, his guard immediately rising. 

"I fear you are already too late! Much too late!" she laughed mockingly, "The young prince Legolas is beyond any aid you could possibly bring him now."

"But you said you could still save him!" Gimli cried in horrified disbelief, hoping what he had heard was false as he wheeled all the way around to face her, "You said you could bring him back if I released you!" 

"I lied you fool! I never intended to save that elf!"

"Lied...?" Gimli repeated in dumbstruck shock at Eronel's confession, "But you said you had changed and that you wanted to make amends for your past sins." 

As her sunken face twisted into a cruel smirk, Eronel said, "Again, a lie. You were only too easy to deceive. You were so distraught over your friend's death that I could have probably convinced you to do anything for me..." 

"Why? Why did you lie to me that you could save Legolas?" the dwarf whispered in incomprehension as disbelief and shock froze his mind. 

"I needed you to break the charm keeping me prisoner in that festering cave," she explained with a victorious crooked smile, "I needed someone foolish enough to willing give their consent that I be freed, and you fulfilled your role perfectly, Master Dwarf"- her tongue again mockingly rolled over the syllables of Gimli's title - "The Elves that enchanted the waterfall and imprisoned me in there for so many years put that final barrier there because they knew no one with any common sense would ever willingly set me free. But they had not anticipated the stupidity of a dwarf... You were so gullible to believe I could still save Legolas from my poison, you made my ruse almost too easy. How quickly you came back to me when you found that your friend was gone when you returned..." 

Eronel gave a malicious laugh as she continued, savoring the look of horrified betrayal on Gimli's face, "Do you want to know how your little friend Legolas died? Just before I disposed of him, he was whimpering and crying in pain, calling for you as my poison slowly ate away at his body."

"What do you mean 'when I disposed of him'?" Gimli demanded, "You killed him, didn't you!" 

"Heh heh heh..." the witch laughed, "Yes. I killed him. My poison was moving too slow. I needed to be sure that he would not have any need for the enchanted water you and you two companions took from my waterfall. I needed to make sure you thought I could save Legolas when you returned and found him dead so that you would free me from my dark prison. Do you know he tried to warn one of his mortal friends about me, but the Man dismissed his warnings as mere hallucinations? It was most entertaining to watch... After he left to go find help for the elfling, I snuck in and tied off the last loose end to my plan. The look on that mortal's face when he came back and found his friend only moments dead was priceless. I suspect he blames himself for Legolas' death..."

*Aragorn...* The dwarf's stomach clenched in sickness as he thought of the Ranger and his promise to Gimli that he would not leave Legolas side until he returned with a cure. Aragorn's friendship with Legolas went deep and was not to be taken lightly, Even though consumed in his own grief Gimli had known the man was distraught over Legolas and that his promise to watch over the elf while Gimli was away had not been entirely for the dwarf's sake but also as a personal undertaking. *By Aule, I didn't even realize how near he must have been when Legolas died...He must blame himself for Legolas' death even more than I...* 

Hot anger for the pain two of his closest friends had suffered at the hands of Eronel's treachery boiled deep in Gimli's heart. "And what do you plan to do with yourself now that you've lied and tricked me into freeing you when you should have rotted in your cave for another thousand years, witch?" he cried, glaring at the ugly hag of an elf before him. 

The evil sorceress looked down on the betrayed dwarf, beaming victoriously. "Thanks to your gracious service to me, I can no personally see out the rest of me plan for revenge against all my enemies..."

"What do you mean?" Gimli snarled, hefting his ax up threateningly over his shoulder at the witch. 

"My simple minded dwarf..." Eronel said, shaking her head sadly at Gimli's ignorance, "Have you already forgotten of the war already brewing between the Dwarves and Elves of Middle-earth? My revenge against the two races that imprisoned me in that dark hole over two thousand years ado will come from the Naugrim and Eldar themselves. Their brief alliance against me has faded away into foolish hatred and mistrust for each other. Their racial rancor seems to have grown like weeds over the last few centuries..." 

The vengeance and wrath on Gimli's face for Eronel's deception fell into horror at the repugnant she-elf's words. In the revelation of his betrayal, he had completely forgotten the impending threat of war looming on the horizon. Thranduil was going to wage war on all dwarves, blaming Gimli for his son Legolas' death. 

"Before I depart, I feel I must thank you, Master Dwarf," she continued, mockingly using her title for Gimli, "For without you none of this would have been possible."

"What do you mean?"

"It was you that rediscovered the forgotten dagger of that horrible little dwarf that wounded me and drove me into the cave I was caught and sealed in. It was only by pure luck that mindless elfling Legolas managed to poison himself on the blade, but if you hadn't given it to him, I would have never been able to have persuaded you to release me."

A cold malicious laugh sprang from her mouth as Eronel gloated over her own cunning and treachery. "But I must admit, I never thought my plan would work out so well. Not only am I free to spread a new wave of darkness over the land and rule over Middle-earth, but the two races of my greatest enemies will soon destroy themselves! I could not have hoped for a sweeter revenge! I can already smell the blood in the air! And it is all because of you, my foolish and gullible dwarf!" 

Lifting her head up triumphantly towards the heavy black clouds overhead, Eronel gave another cackle. "I again thank you for your assistance, _Master Dwarf_," she emphasized snidely, "But I fear out time together has reached its end. There are still matters to attend to before Dwarves and Elves meet in bloody battle... Farewell!"

"You are going no where, Eronel," Gimli cried angrily, launching himself forward with his ax swung back to strike the foul witch. 

But before Gimli even reached the rancid pond's edge, a brilliant white laugh exploded around the elven sorceress and blinded the dwarf. He could hear her evil laughter crowing at him from somewhere beyond the wall of white locking his vision. A startled cry ripped from Gimli's throat as his hands flew up instinctively to shied his eyes from the flash. Overbalanced by the heavy ax raised over his shoulder, the Gimli fell backwards to the pool's shore. The back of the dwarf's helmed skull bounced off the ground as his body crashed onto the black and withered forest's floor. 

Eronel's laughter lingered in Gimli's ears as the light slowly receded and began to fade and dim around the dwarf. Finally her maniacal cackling faded from the air and the hiss of falling rain rushed back, filling the void of silence. 

Shivering cold and wet, Gimli slowly raised himself up from the thick mud he lay in. Cold rain lashed through the sickly black branches of the dead trees and slapped Gimli mockingly in the face. Crawling to his knees, he looked around frantically, searching the pond's surface for any sign of the elven sorceress. But the stagnant pool's murky waters were empty and speckled by the drops of rain pelting into its surface. A damp chill hung in the air, freezing Gimli to the bones under his drenched and muddy clothes. The diseased forest felt dead and empty around him, silent except for the fizzle of rain in the air. Eronel had disappeared. 

Gimli stared at the empty place where she had stood hovering over the defiled water only a moment before. Her words echoed in his head like an unending chant of death and darkness.

Alone in the rain drenched forest, in the middle of no where, Gimli felt the world crumbling around him. The grey clouds seemed to be manifesting his misery as rain continued to shower down around him, cloaking him in a mist of sorrow and regret. 

*I failed Legolas again... And not only him but Aragorn and everybody else. I was a fool to think anything or anyone could help bring Legolas back from the dead. He is gone forever, and it is my fault. Eronel was right... all of this is my fault. Legolas is dead and now war will claim the lives of countless innocent people... and all because of me...* 

His mind contaminated with Eronel words, Gimli remembered one of the last things she had told him before she had disappeared. *Legolas died calling for me. He died in pain and agony, and yet he called for me – me! the one who brought him all his suffering! I did not deserve to be Legolas' friend. She killed him when I should have been there at his side. It should have been I, not Legolas that died. It is my fault war will kill thousands of Elves and Dwarves, and that Eronel is again free to destroy Middle-earth...*

Whatever had been left of Gimli's sanity since leaving Rivendell in search of Eronel's cave final shattered. Consumed with bitterness and shame for all the pain and death he had caused, Gimli broke down and hung his head low, weeping into cupped hands as the rain continued to wash over him. Mingled with the cold rain coursing down in face, Gimli's tears streamed down his bearded face. His anguished howls of lament echoed away into the dead forest of the pestilent valley before finally fading under the pounding rain that poured over the land like tears shed from heaven...

****

TBC...

****

OK, before I get mean reviews for still not bringing Legolas back (still no hints as to if I will or not... *grinning unconcerned at all the readers already leaving death threats for reviews*) I want to just reiterate one more time: STICK WITH ME!! You saw how much I had to write just to deal with Aragorn and Gimli. Think of Thranduil and everybody else. And don't forget about Toreingal... He's going to be a mental case to deal with... This story may take a bit of time, but I am very confident that I have worked out the rest of the story in my head and that there will be no more writer's block. 

Anyway, I wanted to explain Gimli obvious stupid-move-of-the-day of freeing Eronel. You have to realize he's distraught over finding Legolas (possibly his closest friend in the whole wide world of Middle-earth) dead, and thinking it was all his fault. Eronel worked off Gimli's desperation to find a way to somehow bring Legolas back and manipulated his emotions into blindly setting her free, convincing him that she could somehow magically restore Legolas' life. 

Before I let you go, I want to leave a hint for next chapter. Remember Thranduil's commander, Celion, from the last chapter? Well keep an eye out for her because she's going to have more than a five second, walk-by character role and will become an intricate element to the story later on... Hope I gave you something to sink your teeth into!

Please don't forget to review? Even if you totally abhor reviewing, at least let me know you actually read my fic. Thanks to all the others that reviewed last time. See you all around next time.

Signing out

-LAXgirl 


	10. Return to Rivendell

Rain drizzled softly down onto the green boughs of the forest from the grey sky above. Its soft hiss filled the forest air as a gentle mist fell through the thick canopy to the forest floor far below. Riding side-by-side along a path weaving through the ancient oak trees, two cloaked riders made their way trudgingly through the misty rain. Both of the riders' hoods were drawn low over their faces, trying to divert the falling rain from running into their eyes. A bow and quiver full of arrows were slung over each of their backs. The dull glint of sheathed swords poked out from under their light grey cloaks every now and again as the two rode headlong into the brisk, rain-laced wind that blew around them, snapping their water-sodden garments in the air. 

The horses the two rode were strong and swift, clear results of carefully selective breeding and excellent equine bloodlines. But the riders could not be seen utilizing any kind of tack or bridle in the riding of these proud and beautiful creatures with silky soft coats and long flowing manes and tails. Besides the riders themselves, all else on the horses' backs were two sets of saddlebags and water-skins hanging over the base of their necks. 

"Brother, when we return home, it will be you that explains our tardiness to father," grumbled one of the riders from beneath his hood as he addressed his cloaked companion riding beside him.

"Why must I be the one to tell him? It wasn't my suggestion to take the northern path through the mountains. I was totally against your "shortcut" – as you called it – from the very beginning. Why should I have to be the one that explains to father why we are over a week late for the Gathering?"

"It is just as much your fault as it was mine, dear sibling. As I do recall, it was because of your untimely trepidation of crossing that river that we lost two days trying to find you a "suitable" place to cross where you wouldn't get your feet too wet."

"Elladan, there were shallow rapids there! You are thicker in the head than I ever thought if you think we could have crossed there. And with two pack-laden horses no less! It is lucky for you that I did not listen to you, or all that dead grey matter between your ears would have sunk you straight to the bottom of the river like a stone!" Elrohir cried, affronted by his identical twin's gull and temerity.

"Nonsense," Elladan snorted indignantly, "Even with the horses we could have easily crossed that river and been home over two days ago. If it wasn't for you and all your childish whining, we could be home right now enjoying a warm fireplace instead of trekking through the mountains in the rain. Therefore, it is your fault and your place to apologize to father for not being present for the start of the feast."

"You are worse than a tavern hustler from Bree!" the younger of the two elven twins exclaimed, "I will not take the blame for your involvement in all of this! It was _your_ brilliant idea that we should volunteer to go and inspect one of the northern border patrols for father, and then go for a short hunting trip on the way back in the first place! I knew something like this was going to happen. I told you that it was not a good idea with only a week before the feast, but did you listen to me? No! Of course not!"

"No one held a sword to your throat to come," Elladan shot back defensively.

Ignoring his brother's point, Elrohir continued on as if he hadn't even heard him, "And not only did you get us lost in the mountains with your stupid shortcut, but we probably have missed all the feasting and everyone else there! I wanted to see Legolas, Gimli, and the Hobbits again, but we may as well just take another 'short hunting trip' because they'll all have left by the time we reach Rivendell!"

Elrohir was so agitated by now, he was unconsciously wringing a section of his horse's rain-drenched mane between his fingers as he glared daggers at his brother out of the corner of his eyes. 

"Now now, brother," Elladan chided calmly, keeping his cool to purposely aggravate his sibling even more, "Anger will get you nowhere. I am sure none of our guests will have left yet. I have it on good authority that Legolas and Gimli were planning to stay in Rivendell for a month or so. And I doubt the Hobbits will have departed just yet either. So just calm that temper of yours a bit and enjoy the ride back." The older twin then straightened in his saddle, as if asserting his superiority over his brother by being the voice of reason. 

Elrohir gritted his teeth in annoyance. He hated it when Elladan tried to play the older, wiser sibling. Elladan was only ten minutes older than him, yet at times he would try and act as though he were two thousand years his senior. 

"I will not take the blame for your own indiscretion," Elrohir muttered under his breath, "Father will not be pleased for our tardiness, and I will not be the one to have my ears taken off by his lectures."

Elladan gracefully swayed to the rhythm of his horse's gait as he sat mulling over the problem still at hand. He did not want to have to take the blame and hear Elrond's scolding any more than his brother did. The gentle hiss of falling rain filled the silent void as Elladan pondered their predicament. Finally an idea popped into the elf's head. "What say you to a race?"

"What?"

"A race. The last to the designated finish line will be the one to apologize to father and take the blame for the both of us and endure whatever verbal thrashing there is to follow." 

Elrohir eyed his brother in a moment of thoughtful silence. Giving his bay-colored horse a soft tap on the side of the neck, Elrohir signaled to the animal to stop. He did not need any harsh bit or bridle to do so; Elves rarely needed such things when they shared such an intimate bond with Nature and all her living creatures. Elladan also pulled in his mount as he came to a halt beside his twin. 

"A race could be a very interesting way to settle this," Elrohir said with a mischievous smile. The younger of the two dark-haired elves scanned the forested path ahead. They were now perhaps two, three hours away from the northern gate of Rivendell, and were well acquainted with the mountainous area they were now in. "Where shall we race to," he asked, turning his ancient grey eyes back onto the older, mirror image of himself. 

"Hmm... To the creek?" Elladan suggested in reference to a small brook that flowed past the elven trail the brothers were on about a quarter mile up the track. 

"To the creek then," Elrohir smirked with a roguish glint in his ancient yet boyish grey eyes. 

Elladan could not help but mirror the playful smile pulled across his brother's face. Though at times the two would bicker and argue heatedly (as all siblings will do), the twin sons of Elrond were well known for their mischievous nature and their undying love of pranks and tom-foolery, and Elrohir was quick to forget his anger towards Elladan with the proposition of a race.

"I do hope you will not be terribly mad at me when this is over," the younger of the two said as he siddled his mount up even with Elladan's for a fair start, "Because father is going to keep you busy for hours with his responsibility lectures while I am enjoying the feast."

"I think not, dear brother," Elladan answered with a smile, "It will be you that will be enduring father's speeches. Thinsûl* and I do not plan on losing," he added with an affectionate pat on his silver-grey stallion's proud neck.

"Well, Curudal** and I do not plan on losing either," Elrohir retorted, eagerly returning his brother's boasts, "Curudal could outrun any horse this side of the Anduin."

"Then let us see if there is any truth to all that bravado," the older twin said as he leaned down over his horse's neck, preparing to race. 

"Let's," Elrohir agreed with a smile, taking the same position as his brother. By now, the horses had sensed the growing excitement in the air from their riders and were pranced nervously in place, ready to spring forward the second their riders gave them the signal. 

"On the count of three..." Elladan said. Both brothers gripped a handful of their horses' manes. The horses tossed their heads excitedly, pawing at the ground, ready to be off. 

"One..."

"Two..."

"Three!"

Both horses shot forward like loosed arrows, their hooves flying beneath them. Clods of dirt flew up into the air as the elven bred steeds charged down the forested path leading towards Rivendell. Elladan and Elrohir's grey hoods flew back from their faces as the wind tore them back from the brothers' heads. Their cloaks snapped in the driving wind. The elves' braided, dark brown hair streamed out over their shoulders and whipped in the air as the rainy wind lashed their exposed faces. But the brothers payed little attention to the falling rain now as they vied each other for a lead on the narrow path with gentle guiding touches on the sides of their horses' necks. The forest sped by them in a collage of green and brown.

"You are losing, brother," Elrohir called over his shoulder merrily as he managed to cut Elladan off and finally gain the lead position. Over the roar of the wind in his ears, the younger of the two elves could hear his brother spit a profane curse at his back and urge his horse faster. Giving a sly smile, Elrohir gave Curudal an encouraging pat on the neck "_Noro lim, Curudal_," he whispered into the racing horse's ear. 

Hearing its master's words of encouragement, the sorrel stallion put on an extra burst of speed and lowered its head into the wind. His limbs and head tucked together tightly on the moving animal's broad back, Elrohir squinted into the oncoming wind and scanned the path ahead. 

In the near distance, his sharp elven eyes could discern the first signs of the rain-swollen creek between the moving trunks of the surrounding forest. Elrohir could hear his brother behind him trying to urge his horse faster. He could hear Thinsûl's hoofs pounding the ground behind him, riding Curudal's tail.

Unwilling to give his twin the time he needed to gain on him, the youngest son of Elrond again whispered urgent encouragements to his galloping mount. Curudal again put on a burst of speed and gained several more paces between himself and Elladan. But the older elf was not willing to admit defeat just yet, and urged his silver-grey stallion faster too, pulling up right up on Elrohir's heels. 

The stream was coming closer. Its clear, rushing water could be seen gurgling over the smooth rocks lining its riverbed. 

"Faster, Curudal," Elrohir urged, guiding the animal with a gentle touch on the side of its neck. 

The horses were practically flying down the forest path towards the mountain stream. Rain lashed at the elven brothers' faces like the sting of a hundred tiny ice shards. Their horses pounded the soft ground beneath their flying hooves as they barreled down the trails at break-neck speeds.

Coming to a sharp bend in the path, Curudal's haunches suddenly skidded in the watery mud. The elf was almost thrown from the horse's back as the animal struggled to keep its footing. Elladan immediately seized the moment and surged ahead, keeping Thinsûl on the left most side of the path where the dirt trail had been more sheltered by the overhanging boughs of the tress and was less slippery and muddy. Pulling out of his tail-spin, Elrohir immediately kicked Curudal after his brother. The two were again neck and neck, coming up fast on the gurgling brook. 

"You will not win!" Elrohir shouted over the driving wind whipping around them as he pushed his sorrel stallion faster, jockeying to regain his lead. Whether Elladan heard his brother's challenge or not, he did not return any boasts, and only urged Thinsul faster. 

They were fifty, forty, now thirty feet away from the stream. 

Leaning down low over Curudal's neck, Elrohir locked his eyes in dead-set determination on the approaching stream. The trees whirled past them as the two horses and riders sped down the sylvan trail. Thinsûl suddenly put on another burst of speed and edged ahead as the two entered the final stretch. 

Eyeing his brother competitively, Elrohir gave one final tap of encouragement on his stallion's proud neck. Feeling his master's signal, Curudal sprang forward with unforseen speed, quickly overtaking Elladan and passing the sliver-coated horse and winning himself an unbeatable lead over the older son of Elrond in the final few yards. 

But before Elrohir could reign his sprinting steed in and claim victory, a large brown mass suddenly darted out in front of the charging horse and rider. 

Wickering in surprise, Curudal reared back on his hind legs, almost sending the mounted elf flying off its back. Elrohir somehow managed to grab a handful of tossing mane before he was jettisoned from off the stallion's back, and clung for dear life as the animal pranced and wheeled around madly in place. 

"Elrohir! Are you alright?" the younger of the two elves heard his brother call over the frightened snorting and pawing of his startled horse from somewhere behind him. 

"Yes... I think," Elrohir replied uncertainly as he tried to calm the agitated beast he rode. Gently stroking the frightened animal's sweat-lathered neck and whispering soft elven phrases, the elf slowly regained control. Though shaken and still nervously prancing in place, Curudal finally calmed enough for Elrohir to safely slide off his back without the risk of being unwittingly kicked or tramped on. Coming quickly up beside his roan stallion's head, Elrohir quieted the horse completely with a gentle, soothing hand between the animl's eyes in the center of its long and slender face. 

"What happened?" Elladan exclaimed as he rode up beside his brother and dismounted in a fantastic show of elven agility. Running up to his twin, the Rivendell prince grabbed his brother's shoulder and wheeled the other elf around to face him. He fretfully wiped a hand across his younger brother's forehead, pushing back the strands of dark brown hair that had become undone from Elrohir's braids in the wind and plastered to his face in the rain. "Are you alright?" he again cried as he scanned Elrohir's face as if searching for any sign of injury. The elf was extremely upset and worried by his brother's near-accident. 

"I believe so," Elrohir answered in a shaking voice. His stomach felt like a rock sitting in the pit of his gut from the sudden scare. He could feel his body shivering as the adrenaline surging through his blood slowly began to ebb away. 

"What happened?"

"I...I don't know. Something ran out in front of me and startled Curudal." Glancing up the trail, the brothers scanned the remaining path to the banks of the narrow mountain stream. Breaking away from his brother, Elrohir slowly took a few steps towards the stream. Following after him, Elladan gave an uncertain glance back at the horses that stood beside each other, tiredly hanging their heads from their race.

Walking up the path to the edge of the running stream, Elrohir glanced down either bank, searching for any sign of the mysterious thing that had run out in front of him and almost gotten him killed. Finding nothing down the left side of creek, Elrohir turned to spot down the right. 

There standing several yards down along the side of the bank stood a haggard looking brown mare, its head bent nearly to the ground in exhaustion. Twigs and leaves were knotted in its thick mane and tail which were ungroomed and tangled. The animal looked thin and hungry, but seemed too tired to eat any of the lush grasses growing along the side of the flowing brook. It barely even looked up as the twins drew closer. 

"Hello there," Elladan murmured softly in way of a greeting as he came up beside the horse and placed a hand on the ragtag creature's neck. The mare did not shy away from the elves, but rather seemed comfortable in their presence and even raised her head several inches from the ground and whickered pitifully to them. 

"Do you think it lost its rider somewhere and has been running stray in the woods?" Elrohir asked as he picked the trailing reigns from up off the ground and held them in his hand. 

"I don't know," Elladan muttered under his breath as his ancient grey eyes strayed up to look at an empty saddle and pack sitting forlornly atop the mare's back. Examining the leather saddle and bridle closely, the older twin suddenly realized they were of elven make. Though elves rarely used bridle or tack themselves, they would often have them on hand should they need them for whatever reason. Running his eyes over the straggly creature, a flicker of recognition suddenly sparked in the elf's memory. 

Elrohir also seemed to have made a connection. "Does this horse not look like Santhir to you, Elladan?" he asked in dawning realization. The dark chestnut mare before them bore a striking resemblance to one of the horses in their father's private stable back in Rivendell. 

"I think it is Santhir," Elladan remarked, casting his twin a foreboding glance. 

"But why would she be out here in the forest? Father would let very few people ride out on one of his own horses," Elrohir commented, sweeping his eyes over the ragged looking animal, "Where do you think her rider is?"

"I don't know," he answered, swiveling around to scan the surrounding forest, "We should scout the area. Santhir's rider may be nearby and in need of our help."

Nodding in understanding, Elrohir dropped the reigns back to the ground and gave the haggard mare a gentle pat on the muzzle to assure her they would return for her soon. Turning from the stream, the elves spread out in different directions along the bank and started back into the water-drenched forest. The rain had tapered away into a fine drizzle and misted the brothers' unhooded faces as they combed though the surrounding trees. 

As he was scouting the land several hundred paces east of where they had found the stray horse, Elrohir suddenly heard his brother call out to him. Rushing in the direction of the voice, the elf came across his twin kneeling down in front of a small huddled figure laying at the base of a large elm tree. Coming closer and looking over his brother's shoulder, Elrohir saw that it was a person wrapped in a rain-drenched cloak. At the stranger's feet lay a discarded axe. 

"Master Gimli?" Elrohir stammered in shock. Kneeling beside his brother, the elf pushed back the drawn up hood from the dwarf's face. "What happened?" he asked his brother.

"I don't know." 

The dwarf did not answer the elf. He was conscious but looked distant and sickly. His bushy beard was caked with mud and slicked down with rain. His dark little eyes were swollen and red as though he had been weeping violently. He could not seem to focus on anything around him even as the brothers called to him desperately. 

"Gimli? Gimli, can you hear me? What happened?" Elladan called, trying to pull the dwarf to sit up straight against the trunk of the tree. Working together, the brother finally managed to prop Gimli upright so that he was eye level with them. Elladan then shook the dazed looking dwarf's shoulders sharply, trying to rattle him awake. 

Like awakening from out of some sort of trance, Gimli slowly turned his head and looked at the two elves. Blinking his beady little eyes into focus, the dwarf stared in momentary silence at the warrior-princes of Rivendell. 

"What happened to you? Why are you out here alone in the woods?" Elladan questioned with growing concern for the mud-caked dwarf in his arms.

Gimli again just sat and looked at the twins as though in a silent stupor. But before Elladan or Elrohir could question Gimli any further, the dwarf's eyes suddenly teared up as though the elves' fair faces stirred in him some repressed anguish and sorrow. His bearded face contorted with grief and despair. 

"What is the matter, Gimli?" the younger of the two cried, taken aback by the usually stoic dwarf's sudden display of unexpected emotions.

"I'm sorry..." Gimli finally croaked in a raspy voice as he hung his head down his chest. A hollow sob escaped his lips as his body began to shudder with building tears. 

"What...?" Elrohir stuttered, struggling to understand what the dwarf was trying to say. 

"I'm sorry... It's all my fault," he whispered, locking his eyes on the identical faces before him, "It's all my fault..."

"What is your fault? What happnened?" Elladan demanded urgently. Never before had he or his brother ever seen the Gimli reduced to such a pitiful state; laying alone in the mud, and weeping as though he had lost all will to go on with life. The sudden change in the demeanor of the proud and honorable dwarf was enough to scare both brothers into believing that something terrible must have happened back in Rivendell while they had been away. 

"Legolas... He's gone. It's all my fault," Gimli choked. A visible grimace of pain flashed across his face at the mention of the blond archer. Bitter tears of anguish were now seeping from the corners of his eyes as he tried to cover his face with his hands. His shoulders shook with barely checked sobs. 

"What happened to Legolas? Where is he? Did something happen in Rivendell?" Elladan demanded, becoming desperate to understand what was going on. 

"He's gone!" the dwarf wailed, seized in a fit of building hysteria. "He's gone and it's all my fault!" 

"What happened to him?!" Elrohir cried in frustrated impatience, forcefully shaking the dwarf's shoulders in a vain attempt to make him speak coherently.

"I'm sorry... It's all my fault. Legolas, I'm so sorry..." the dwarf rambled as he buried his face in hands and cried out piteously for the forgiveness of the Mirkwood prince.

Elrohir cast his brother a helpless look. 

"We have to get back home immediately. Something's happened in Rivendell," Elladan said ominously, never taking his eyes off the weeping dwarf before him, "I think something very bad has happened to Legolas..."

********

Silence hung in the air like the weight of a thousand shattered hopes and dreams. Rain pattered against the window panes of Lord Elrond's study, filling the void of silence with its cold and emotionless taps. A dim greyness seemed to cling to the room, casting everything in a dull gloom. 

Elrohir and Elladan sat beside each other on one of the several plush couches lining their father's study. Both seemed distant and almost in a state of shock. Elrohir was slumped forward in his seat, staring blankly down at the floorboards. Elladan, likewise, stared ahead as if trying to look through the walls and see a hundred miles into the distance. Both sat holding hands, as if trying to seek mutual comfort in each other's presence. A dark shadow seemed to hang over both elves' ancient grey eyes. 

"When... when did all this happen?" Elladan finally managed to say, breaking the intense silence of the room. 

"About a week ago," the twins' father, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, said in a somber tone, "He passed away in the night about four days ago."

"I... I don't understand how this could have happened. Legolas was so strong...It just doesn't make sense..." Elladan murmured, shaking his head in shocked disbelief. Elrond did not fail to miss the crack in his son's voice.

"He was strong... But just not strong enough to hold the poison off long enough for us to help him," came an empty voice from the side of the room. Aragorn stood not far from his foster-brothers, trying hard to hold in his own anguished emotions the twins' return had managed to stir up in him again. 

Arwen stood close by the ranger's side, silently trying to offer him comfort and support. The elven princess' grey eyes shifted between her mortal lover and her brothers, obviously torn by whether to stay with Aragorn or go to her brothers and offer her sympathy to them also. Elladan and Elrohir had been close friends with the youngest prince of Mirkwood, Legolas, and the pain of his death was evident in their eyes. 

"Can we see him?" Elrohir finally spoke up, lifting his head to look up at his father pleadingly. Tears rimmed his sorrow-filled grey eyes. "Can I just see him one last time? I...I have to say goodbye to him."

"Yes. His body is laid out in the garden room in the north wing. You can see him later after you both have had some time to rest," Elrond said. The ancient elf-lord could feel his heart breaking in two at the sight of his sons' grief-ridden expressions. After having dealt with his foster-son, Aragorn, for the past several days, he had thought he would have been able to break the news to Elladan and Elrohir without feeling some sort of back tracking in the grieving process. It seemed his heart had still not fully healed just yet. 

"We should have been here..." Elladan muttered, ruefully shaking his head. Stifling a sob, the elf ran the back of his hand across his face in a vain attempt to stop the tears that were already leaking down his cheeks. "We should have never left Rivendell. If we had been here–"

"Nothing would have changed," interrupted a deep and raspy voice. The older twin lifted his head heavily and looked towards the white garbed man that had spoken. Meeting the elf's gaze, the wizard Gandalf emerged from the grey shadows of the room and said, "Even if you had been here nothing would have changed. Legolas would have still fallen victim to the poisoned blade, and died before we could bring him a cure. Your presence here would have changed nothing. Do not burden yourself with what might have been, but was not. It will do you no good to question what might have happened had you made a different choice or chosen a different path. You will only drive yourself mad with endless possibilities and unanswerable questions. Do not try to blame yourself for what happened, for there was nothing more we could have done for Legolas even if you had been here."

"But... we might have at least been able to have seen him one last time and said goodbye," Elrohir choked as a racking sob shook his slender frame, "We could have at least been there to say goodbye..." Breaking down, the elf could no longer contain the grief or sorrow of Legolas' death. It was too much for him to bear. He had not expected to return home and find one of his closest friends dead. 

A shallow, empty sob escaped Elrohir's lips as he hung his head and tried to cover his face with his hands. Elladan quickly wrapped his brother in a comforting embrace, and rocked the grieving elf in his arms. Burying his face in his brother's hair, Elladan let his own sorrow take him. Neither elf cared whether their father or friends saw their tears or heard their sobs as they abandoned both pride and pretense and mourned for their lost friend and comrade. 

"We could have at least said goodbye..." Elrohir cried bitterly into his brother's shoulder as he balled his fists in helpless grief and anger. 

"Perhaps," Gandalf conceded with a grim nod of his head, "But you may have served a better purpose by returning when you did. For without you, we may have never found our missing friend Gimli..." The wizard's thoughtful gaze shifted from the distraught twins to the quiet figure hunched in a large arm-chair in the far corner of the gloomy study. 

The dwarf did not seem to have noticed he had entered the conversation. He sat like a statue of carved stone staring out the window, passively watching as the rain continued to relentlessly beat at the glass and trickle down the outside in tiny rivulets. Gimli's rain drenched cloak had been taken away, and a thick blanket draped over his damp form. 

There was no doubt in Elrond's mind that Gimli had taken a grievous chill in the rain before being found by the twins and brought back to Rivendell. But the dwarf showed no visible signs of cold or shivers. It was as though he was so shattered by personal anguish and grief that he was no longer even aware of his mortal body. 

"Gimli?" Elrond called softly in a gentle voice. His long, flowing cobalt-blue robes rustled quietly over the polished floorboards as he took a tentative step towards the silent figure. There was no response as Gimli continued to silently stare out through the rain-spattered window. "Gimli?" the elf-lord persisted in a firmer tone. 

A small sign of life seemed to stir in the dwarf's dark brown eyes. He slowly turned his head from the study window and looked at the ageless elf standing before him with listless eyes. 

The ancient healer held the dwarf's distant gaze for several long moments, trying to gauge to what depths of hopelessness and despair Gimli had fallen. The ancient healer could see by the vacant light in the dwarf's eyes that although he looked at him he didn't really see him. Written across Gimli's countenance was the naked pain and anguish of losing a friend and brother. 

The elf-lord immediately felt sorry for the pitiful creature before him. 

Stooping down eye level with his rain-sodden guest, Elrond asked in a low voice of grave seriousness, "Gimli, we have to know, where did you go? Why did you leave Rivendell?"

Gimli stared at Elrond silently, as one would look at the pages of a book when their mind had wandered elsewhere. 

Elrond frowned, dreading what the dwarf's drawn-out silence could mean. 

"You released Eronel from her cave in attempt to try and find a way to revive Legolas, didn't you?" he said in a hushed voice over the hollow tapping of the rain on the windows and the soft sobs of his sons on the other side of the room. It was less a question than a statement. 

Gimli finally seemed able to focus his bleary eyes on the fair face of the elf standing in front him. A storm of unleashed motions flew across Gimli's face. His lower lips began to quiver beneath his mud-caked beard as fresh tears stung his eyes. "Yes..." he choked out barely above a whisper. 

A murmur of dismay ran through the assembled group. 

"By the Valar! Do not tell me you were stupid enough to believe Eronel could have brought Legolas back from the dead!" Gandalf burst in a fierce, booming voice. The white wizard stormed across the study straight towards Gimli, his staff matching the beat of every other footfall. Gandalf was well know for his quick and fiery temper that only the bravest of men dared invoke. Unfortunately though, one of the surest ways of evoking the Maia's wrath was by even the most innocent of slips in good judgement. "I had a feeling that was where you had gone, but why? Why did you think Eronel could bring Legolas back?" he demanded, coming to tower over Elrond's shoulder and stare down at the hunched figure in the armchair. 

Gimli shook his head slowly in shame. Tears of despair trickled down his wrinkled face. "She said she could..." he forced out over the violent sobs quaking his voice, "She appeared to me whist you and the elf were fetching the water. She said that the enchanted water would not save Legolas – only she could. She said if I released her, she could save him... When we came back and Legolas was..." Gimli broke off with a choke, unable to finish the sentence, "I... I didn't know what else to do... She said she could bring him back."

"And you believed her?!" Gandalf roared in disbelief, "May Aulë strike the beards off all dwarfs as foolish as you! There was a reason Eronel was locked away in that cave! Do you know what kind of death and destruction she has committed or is capable of committing again?!"

Gimli visibly winced.

"Peace, Mithrandir," Elrond said softly with an outstretched hand to the raging wizard, "Anger will get us nowhere in this matter." Looking at Gimli again, the ancient elf-lord said in a softened tone of pity, "I assume then, Master Dwarf, that since Legolas has not awoken from his eternal sleep that Eronel did not fulfill her promise to you?"

"Nay," Gimli admitted with a rueful shake of his head. 

He elf signed wearily. "Then this truly is a sorrowful day for all the free-people of Middle-Earth..." he said, turning away from Gimli to pace the study floor There was a clear note of disappointment in Elrond's deep and sonorous voice. 

Gimli hung his head in shame. He might have been able to endure Gandalf's harsh words, but to hear such disappointment coming from Lord Elrond himself was almost too much for the anguished dwarf to bear. Though he would have never admitted it to anyone, he had come to greatly respect the ancient elf-lord of Rivendell. 

Elrond had never failed to treat him as an honored friend and guest, or treat him any differently than one of his own people. He had once even given Gimli's own father sanctuary in the Last Homely House when Glóin and a travel-worn company of dwarves came traveling through the Misty Mountains with Frodo's uncle Bilbo and the grey wizard Gandalf on a long and dangerous quest almost sixty years before. Truth be told, because of that incident, Elrond was the only elf Gimli knew of that his father seemed to hold any esteem for... 

But to now see Elrond look at him so disappointedly with his sorrowful grey eyes and yet not rebuke him for his foolish actions, it felt almost worse than having his pride and honor publically denounced by the white wizard. 

"I'm sorry..." the dwarf whispered remorsefully, unable to bear the elf's sorrowful gaze on him. "I truly believed Eronel could bring Legolas back..."

"Eronel is one full of tricks and lies, Master Dwarf," Elrond sighed regretfully, "She knew to what measures you would go to bring Legolas back..." An empty silence followed, as if Elrond's words had awakened in all of them the knowledge of the intense void Legolas had left them to fill. 

"Where is Eronel now?" Aragorn demanded in a low, gravelly voice from one of the dark shadows of room, near the couch where his two foster-brothers were still grieving in each others arms with muffled sobs. Arwen looked up worriedly at sound of the harsh note permeating Aragorn's voice from where she sat on the edge of the couch beside Elrohir, gently stroking his back and trying to sooth his distressed cries away. 

Everyone in the room looked at Gimli expectantly, sensing the rising tension in the room.

The dwarf shifted uncomfortably under his friends' gaze and turned his reddened eyes to the floor. "I know not..." he whispered in a distant voice.

"What do you mean you do not know?" the ranger spat. Contempt smoldered in his steel-grey eyes as he stared at the dwarf. His rugged features were stormy and dark. "What did you do, just walk away when she said she wouldn't revive Legolas? Just left to let that witch run free?" he demanded with unmistakable animosity in his voice. 

The room grew silent as Aragorn rounded the couch holding his foster-siblings and slowly made his way in Gimli's direction. Elladan and Elrohir's murmured sobs tapered off as they quieted to watch their mortal brother confront Gimli. 

"She disappeared before I could stop her," Gimli defended himself in a low voice, feeling immediately taken aback and put on guard by the unnatural tone of hostility in Aragorn's voice. He could feel the tension in the room grow a notch higher with every step the man took closer to him. "I tried, Aragorn..."

"Tried? Tried like you did to bring back a cure for Legolas? Tried like you did to hurry back and save his life? Was_ that_ how hard you tried to stop Eronel?" Aragorn cried incredulously, his voice cracking in his throat. The man's fists shook at his sides as he stared at the dwarf. Helpless rage and grief clouded his mind. He had had to watch one of his best friends slowly slip away before his very eyes, but what had been worse was that there had been nothing he could do to help ease Legolas' suffering even in his last few agonizing moments of life. With Gimli's return, all Aragorn could think of was the torture and pain the elf had endured while hopelessly waiting for Gimli's return. Seized by a violent surge of misdirected anger, Aragorn exploded at the dwarf, unable to see Gimli as anything more than a target with which to vent his pain and frustration on. 

"Do _not_ patronize me, Aragorn! I tried everything I could to bring Legolas back a cure!" Gimli shouted sharply as he jumped out of his chair and met the ranger half way across the study floor, his dark little eyes ablaze. Man and dwarf stood barely a foot apart, hatefully staring into each other's faces. "I would have given my life to save Legolas! Don't you _ever_ accuse me of trying to intentionally harm that elf!"

"Why did you have to give him that dagger?!" the man shouted shrilly in mounting hysterics. Angry tears were now coursing down his tanned and beard-stubbled face. "It's your fault he died! Why did you have to give him that dagger?! Why?! If it wasn't for you, he would still be alive!" Aragorn's whole body was now shaking as he glared at the mud-caked dwarf before him. 

Gimli was momentarily stunned by Aragorn's words as though the man had physically dealt him a blow across the face. Gimli felt his heart stung deep by Aragorn's accusations. Anger and reproach for the ranger's condemnations stirred in the dwarf a hidden store of festering rage. "And what about you, Aragorn?! Where were you when Legolas died?!" Gimli blurted out, screaming at the top of his lungs up into the ranger's face. 

The man staggered back, not expecting this sudden shift of incrimination onto himself from the dwarf.

"Where were you, Aragorn?! I'll tell you where you were, you abandoned Legolas! You left him alone with no one there to watch over him! It's because of _you_ Legolas is dead! If you hadn't left him, he might have still been alive!" 

"What... what are you talking about?" Aragorn stammered, his rage and misdirected anger instantly replaced by shock and horror. 

"You left him! You abandoned Legolas!" Gimli shrieked without any thought to what painful truths he might be revealing, "Legolas did not die from poison! Eronel killed him!" A collective gasp of shock went up from the others standing in the shadowy study. "She told me how she snuck into Legolas' room and killed him right after _you_ left! She didn't want him alive when we returned with the water. She wanted him dead! If you hadn't left him, Aragorn, Legolas might still be alive!" 

For a moment, so blinded by grief and anger, Gimli felt almost proud of himself by the shattered expression that flew onto Aragorn's face. He could not help but relish in some small way the look of horror and disbelief in the man's eyes as he slowly backed away from the dwarf with his mouth dropped open. 

Not about to relinquish his attack, the dwarf pressed mercilessly, "You should have been there to protect him, Aragorn! Legolas trusted you and you abandoned him! He even warned you! He told you what Eronel was trying to do! But you wouldn't listen! You didn't believe him and left him there alone to be killed!" 

Aragorn stumbled backwards, staring dumbstruck at Gimli in a mixture of revulsion and mute horror. "By the Valar... No. I... I didn't mean to leave Legolas like that. I was trying to find him help. I..I thought he was hallucinating from the poison. I...I didn't know..." The man looked sick with renewed anguish. 

"Stop it! That is enough!" Elrond finally cried, sweeping in between the estranged friends and forcing them apart. Gandalf was quickly there by his side, pushing Gimli back towards the empty armchair. Drained of his wrath, Gimli put up no resistance and allowed himself to be pushed back into his seat. 

Aragorn immediately shrunk back from his foster-father and Gimli, staring at the dwarf in aghast horror. "Oh, Elbereth, no. It was my fault..." 

"Aragorn, no. Listen to me," the half-elf said, demanding the attention of his mortal child with his most authoritive tone, "It wasn't your fault. It was nobody's fault." Walking towards him, Elrond tried to place a hand on his son's shoulder.

Aragorn recoiled away from Elrond's touch. "Did you not hear him, father?!" he shrieked. Babbling in half-hitched sobs, Aragorn wailed, "Don't you see?! It was my fault! It was all my fault! If I hadn't left him, Legolas would still be alive!" 

Elrond could see his son's already fragile mind threatening to crumble before his very eyes. 

"Estel, don't do this to yourself," Elrond pleaded, "It was not your fault. Nor was it Gimli's. No one could have foreseen anything that could have prevented this. We all wish there was more we could have done for Legolas, but you cannot blame yourself for his death."

Aragorn's face was a mirror for the internal struggle of his warring emotions. Naked pain and anguish swam in his eyes. Paternal instincts kicking in, Elrond was unable to go on watching his child suffer any longer. Sweeping forward, the elf gathered the guilt-stricken man in his arms and let his son's pitiful cries muffle into his shoulder.

A heavy stillness came over the room as if the brief conflict between Aragorn and Gimli had sucked it dry of all other feelings except cold, lonely emptiness. Rain tapped at the windows in dull, hollow rounds. 

In that very moment of bleak despair, more than ever, the light and laughter of Legolas Greenleaf was sorely missed and needed. 

Finally regaining some sense of control, Aragorn extricated himself from his foster-father's arms. Hanging his head shamefully, the man backed away silently and moved off to a distant corner of the study to be alone with his sorrow and inner demons of guilt. 

Elrond frowned, following his son with his ancient eyes as Aragorn melded away into the grey shadows of the room like a ghost. He could see that a long and lonely journey lay ahead of Aragorn. It would be a long time until Aragorn would was finally be able to come to grips with his pain and guilt. Perhaps someday, the man would be able to move on and not dwell on the darkness of life's evanescence. If such a day ever came, then perhaps Aragorn would one day be able to fondly remember Legolas as the strong and loyal warrior and friend he had been before his tragic death, and honor his friend's memory without being haunted by such guilt and sorrow. 

Turning his eyes onto his own biological children, Elrond could see similar paths ahead of each of them (even if, perhaps, they were not as bleak as Aragorn's). Elrond could not help but hope that perhaps for Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen, they would somehow find condolence for their grief over the span of their immortal lives. Maybe with the long passage of time, the painful memories of Legolas' death would someday dim and fade until it became nothing more than a fleeting moment of regret and nothing more. But Elrond somehow doubted that even if they were given an eternity and a half, the pain would ever fully leave them... 

Sighing wearily, the elf-lord turned and looked to where Gimli sat in his chair with Gandalf close by his side, guarding over him. The dwarf's head was bowed and hands hung limply in his lap as he stared with rapt transfixion at the floor. It seemed as if he was again lost in a trance of silent grief and pain. Meeting the elf's worried gaze, the white wizard returned an unreadable expression. 

Casting Gimli a commiserating look, Gandalf slowly shook his head and tugged at his long white beard. "Well now, that didn't go over so well, did it?" he said in grim sarcasm, all previous ire gone from his deep and raspy voice. Having witnessed the heart-wretching confrontation between Aragorn and Gimli, nothing but pity was left in the wizard's heart for the dwarf's hopeless flight of desperation to Eronel's cave. 

"No. It would seem not," Elrond returned dryly, "What do you suggest we do now, Mithrandir?" 

Gandalf became very serious. "With Gimli's return, we must immediately gather the other dwarves housed here in Rivendell and relocate them someplace deep in the mountains where Thranduil cannot find them. Legolas' father is blindly seeking revenge. Any dwarf he finds in the realm of Imladris will most assuredly be killed without question or second thought. We must hide Gimli and his people away until Thranduil can be reasoned with, or it will be a massacre..." 

"That will be easier said than done when Thranduil is in question," Elrond said, " I have had many dealings with him over the centuries, and I have found him to be not the most reasonable of elves, Mithrandir. He can be obnoxiously stubborn when he sets his mind to something. Even if I manage to turn him away from the borders of Imladris, there is no jurisdiction for me to stop Thranduil from making an attack against the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain."

"I know how stubborn Thranduil can be, Lord Elrond. I have had my own dealings with him over the years, and know his nature all too well... I suspect Legolas may have inherited some of Thranduil's obstinacy himself..." Gandalf added quietly to himself almost as an afterthought. A distinct note of sorrow tainted the white wizard's wistful nostalgia of the light-hearted elven warrior he had come to know years before the Fellowship was ever formed or the War of the Ring erupted. 

Elrond nodded solemnly. Turning to the strangely quiet dwarf, he said, "Gimli, do you hear all of this? Thranduil is marching towards Rivendell as we speak with a large military escort. He is ready to wage an attack on all Dwarves. You and your people cannot stay here any longer, it is no longer safe. I will arrange for a small escort of warriors to take you and your company to one of the western mountain villages. I will have orders sent ahead to the ruling commander there to see that you are well taken care of and hidden until this misunderstanding is resolved. We must move quickly. Thranduil is less than a day away from Rivendell."

"I am not going to hide," sounded a distant but resolute voice from somewhere deep inside Gimli's throat. 

"What?" Elrond questioned, confused.

"I said I will not hide from Thranduil," Gimli repeated, lifting woeful eyes up to look at the elf-lord and wizard towering over him where he sat, "It is my fault Legolas is dead. It is because of me Thranduil lost his son. I will not run and hide from him. I will face him and accept the punishment for Legolas' death..."

"You are acting as though you have committed murder!" Gandalf exclaimed in disbelief, trying to reign in the frustration from his voice. His great white staff thumped the ground agitatedly. 

Trying to keep his calm, Elrond tried to reason persuasively, "Master Dwarf, Thranduil will kill you if you stay here. For your safety and the safety of those with you, you must flee Rivendell and seek refuge in the mountains where he cannot find you." 

"I am staying," Gimli said firmly with a resolute shake of his head. 

But before Elrond or Gandalf could say anything else in attempt to dissuade the dwarf from his suicidal decision to stay and await most certain death, a frantic, rapping knock sounded from the study door. 

Without waiting for any acquiescence from within, the door immediately swung inwards and a very flustered looking Glorfindel entered. Only Elrond's march-warden would have taken such liberties as intruding on the Lord of Imladris' study without permission and interrupting the elf-lord's private meeting. 

Spotting Elrond in the far corner of the grey room, the golden-haired elf hurried forward. "My Lord," he cried as he quickly hastened towards the elf and wizard. An aura of subdued panic surrounded the usually calm and collected elven warrior.

The ancient elf-lord was immediately troubled by Glorfindel's unnatural behavior. Only in the gravest of situations had he ever seen his commander in such an agitated state of distress. Naked apprehension and dread shined in the elf's piercing grey eyes. 

"What is wrong, Glorfindel?" Elrond questioned with a strange foreboding tingle in the pit of his stomach. 

"I apologize for my intrusion, Lord Elrond, but I bear grave tidings," the elf answered breathlessly as he made a hasty bow to the elf-lord.

"What is it? What has happened?" Gandalf demanded, immediately picking up on the strained note of urgency in the elf's voice.

"It is Lord Toreingal," he answered gravely, "He has just left the palace."

Elrond and Gandalf exchanged troubled but uncertain looks. 

"Where has he gone?" Elrond prompted in his calm voice of authority. 

Glorfindel shifted nervously on his feet. "He has gone to join Lord Thranduil's army..."

"What do you mean?" Gandalf ordered, demanding immediate answers by the deep tone accenting his voice.

"Scouts have just reported that King Thranduil has been spotted half a day's march from Rivendell's border. He is pressing though the mountains despite the rain and is making straight for eastern border of the city. He will be here by early tomorrow morning. It is a confirmed report that he is escorted by over a hundred and fifty armed and mounted soldiers." 

Elrond felt his heart freeze cold in his chest. Thranduil was already upon them. And Gimli and the other dwarves were still within the walls of Rivendell. He had thought they would have had at least one more day to spirit the dwarves away from Thranduil's grasp. 

"But why did Toreingal leave?" Elrond then questioned, becoming increasingly concerned by his commander's reports of the Mirkwood king. 

"He left immediately after a message was delivered to the gate warden on the eastern side of Rivendell by one of the king's heralds... " Glorfindel hesitated and stared Elrond directly in the eyes. The ominous beating of rain on the window pane filled the empty void of tense silence before the elf finally said in a grave voice, "King Thranduil has just made a formal declaration of war against the elven realm of Imladris. He charges Lord Elrond of Rivendell with the crimes of harboring and protecting the known murderer of Legolas Greenleaf, member of the royal family of Mirkwood..." 

******

TBC.... 

Coming soon....

Chapter 11: Encounter With the Devil

******

__

Fancy-schmancy index of Elven words and phrases 

*Thinsûl: meaning 'grey wind'; from the Sindarian words 'thin(d)' (grey) + 'sûl' (wind); Elladan's horse's name. 

** Curudal: meaning 'skilled feet'; from 'curu' (skill) + 'tal/dal' (foot); Elrohir's horse's name. 

******

Author's Notes:

Well, summer's here and school is finally out. That can only mean one thing: summer fun under the sun! With diploma in hand and vacations ahead, this girl here is looking forward to limitless time to read, write, and barbeque herself in the sun! 

Sorry about the delayed update, but I've been kind of side tracked lately. Besides finals, graduation, lacrosse play-offs, and a heap-load of other nuisances, I started another Lord of the Rings story under a different pen name. It started out as merely an idea that wouldn't leave me alone until one sleepless night I finally wrote it out. Its kind of gotten me to write in a slightly different vein of Legolas-torture.

It is a bit darker and mysterious than this piece here and a little lesser known than "Writings." If you are interested in reading what else my dark and twisted mind is capable of, my other pen name is "attack wing" The new name pays homage to my playing position on the lacrosse field. (FYI. Lacrosse is also where my current name hails from. In the lacrosse world, lacrosse is usually shortened to LAX). The title is "They Came Upon A Midnight Clear" You'll probably like the opening chapter which is set in the infamous Grey Havens. 

Hope to see you there! Don't forget to tell me how I'm doing with this story!

Signing out

-LAXgirl 


	11. Encounter with the Devil

Hi again. Loooong time no see, right? Probably thought I was dead, didn't you? I wouldn't blame you. Anyway, I really don't have any excuse for my extended absence except that I'm just lazy and milking my summer freedom for all it's worth. But since I've been away for so long, I have a special surprise for all my faithful readers down at the bottom. Oh, and thank you all so much for those wonderful reviews! 

Standard disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all affiliated characters are not mine.

*****

In a quiet, grassy field near the outskirts of the elven city of Rivendell, a large tent of dark green and silver had been erected. Scattered hap-hazardly around the main area of the field burned several low fires. Against an orange backdrop of the crackling embers, the black outlines of people were silhouetted. They sat in tight circles huddled around the burning campfires, or lay camped out on the ground just on the edges of the fire's warmth. The murmurs of whispered conversations could be heard drifting up from these groups, but it did little to break the general stillness of the night. An ominous tension hung in the air. 

Inside the single tent of the entire encampment near the far side of the field, the warm glow of candlelight flickered. Its floor was nothing more than the area of packed dirt over which it had been erected. A heavy silence hung in the air, only broken by the chirping of crickets singing their nighttime concert outside. On the inside walls of the canvas structure perfect crepe paper cut-outs of the tent's contents flickered and moved in the dancing candlelight. 

Amidst the enlarged and somewhat elongated shadows of the room sat the still and motionless form of king Thranduil, elven lord and monarch of Mirkwood. 

He sat on a short, collapsible stool near the edge of a low wooden table that served as a humble desk for the mobile establishment. Though Thranduil may have seemed proud and regal in his bearings – sitting straight and tall in his seat – a certain aura of weariness hung over him. His usually proud and squarely set shoulders sagged forward just ever so slightly (almost completely unnoticeable except to a well trained eye that knew the king's subtle body language and moods well) as if he had just thrown a heavy burden from off his back but was still feeling the press of its weight on his shoulders. 

The elf-lord's usually meticulously pressed robes were wrinkled and creased as if they had been worn several days straight without wash or care. His long blond hair hung down the length of his back disheveled and fraying out from his unkept braids. 

In the soft flickering light of the candlelight, Thranduil's face looked older, as if the countless years of his immortal existence were finally beginning to catch up to him and show their passing. Thin care lines creased his ageless face. 

But the shocking change in Thranduil's appearance was nothing in comparison to the haunted look now shining in his ancient grey eyes. He stared out straight ahead towards the distant corner of the tent, seeing everything but nothing all at the same time. His face registered no inner emotions except for hi eyes which shined with a deep and painful grief. 

In Thranduil's hand was a small square of folded paper. His long slender forefingers held the note between them as his thumb methodically rubbed over the soft, feathery edges of it. His fingers moved out of habit and without thought. His actions had become a sort of ritual, a subconscious act of mourning born out of the helplessness of pain and loss. 

As if in a daze of lingering shock, Thranduil slowly looked down from his undefined point of focus on the far wall and stared down at the small note in his hand. A twinge of bitter anguish stirred in the elf-lord as he looked down at the folded square of paper. He could feel the unhealed wound buried deep inside his heart tear open once again and the colorless poison of grief bleed out into his soul. 

He held in his hand the first message he had received from his nephew in Rivendell almost a week before which contained the then uncertain fate of his youngest child. 

Thranduil could feel his throat beginning to constrict with an unbidden rush of emotions. The elven king's grip on the folded parchment tightened as he struggled to fight back the flood of grief that crashed over him. His eyes began to mist over, threatening a rain of anguished tears. 

Though time had passed and the uncertainty of Legolas' future was no longer a mystery still hanging in the balance, Thranduil kept Toreingal's note. He could not bring himself to be parted with it. It was his last written testament to the life of his youngest child's life before it had suddenly disappeared from existence without him even able to see it go or say good-bye. But while the message spoke of almost inevitable doom, there was still some small frail and fragile hope hidden between its lines. There still existed the impossible chance that salvation might still somehow be won from Fate because Legolas was still alive. 

But Fate had proven too powerful of a enemy to overcome and the youngest prince of Mirkwood now lay dead. 

Fresh pain exploded through Thranduil's heart. His fingers slowly curled down over the weather-beaten memento and pressed it into the palm of his hand in a loose fist as he felt the emptiness in his heart swell. He could feel the salty sting of tears building in the corners of his eyes. He wanted to cry. Oh, Elbereth, how badly he wanted to cry. 

But he couldn't. Not now. Not yet.

Crushing the battered note tighter in his fist, Thranduil turned his head to the side and shut his eyes, willing the threatening flood of tears to go away. Even in the privacy of his own tent he would not let his tears fall. Legolas' death caused him more pain than he thought he could ever possible contain, but still he could not let himself cry. Not when his death still went unavenged. He would properly mourn for Legolas later, once his murderer had been brought to justice. 

Just as the ancient king felt the worst of his grief subsiding back into its dull and ever present ache in the pit of his heart, a soft tentative tap sounded from the closed flap of his tent. 

Thranduil paused and looked up calmly from the note still clenched possessively in his fist. Not even the tiniest perceptible change of emotions crossed his ageless face. He made no move to answer, and merely sat, silently staring at the doorway. 

His unknown visitor seemed to interpret Thranduil's hesitation of answering as not being heard and made another quiet tap – this time with a bit more directiveness behind it. 

"Enter," Thranduil finally said, breaking out of his reflectful trance. His deep and sonorous voice was as empty and devoid of emotions as his facial expression.

A moment of hesitant silence ensued before the heavy tent flap was finally pulled aside to allow entry. A solid black wall stood beyond the mouth of the tent way where the candlelight of the tent could not reach. Another stretch of immeasurable time elapsed before the late night caller finally emerged from out of the darkness and timidly stepped into the light, as if he had come to Thranduil's tent out of sheer obligation and out of no free will of his own. 

With the same sluggishness of a prisoner being lead to the gallows, the slim figure of Toreingal slowly filled the entrance of the tent. 

"Uncle," he said softly in a hollow, empty voice from the doorway. 

No visible signs of emotions crossed the elven king's face in reaction to the sudden and unexpected appearance of his nephew. An uncomfortable silence filled the air, creating a suffocating vacuum between the two. 

Seeing that he was going to receive no such greeting from Thranduil, Toreingal shifted uneasily under his uncle's unwavering gaze. He slowly stepped into the tent and let the flap swing back into place behind him. As he came to stand in front of the stoic king, the younger elf's eyes immediately dropped down to the floor. 

Now illuminated in the warm glow of the candles, Toreingal's unusually stern face looked limp and sickly. Dark circles stood out against the elf's pale, waxy skin beneath a set of swollen red eyes. The sharp contrast of Toreingal's pale grey irises against the veiny, red-stained whites of his eyes gave him the appearance of a wild demon that had escaped from out of the dark recesses of some ghastly nightmare. 

Toreingal shifted between his feet uneasily, unable to meet his uncle's gaze. His red rimmed eyes darted across the earthen floor, desperately searching for something to focus his attention on. His eyes finally seemed to find a satisfactory spot and stared with rapt fascination at a small tuft of grass popping up out of the ground several inches in front of Thranduil's left foot. He could feel the air around him steadily grow thicker with ever passing second the elven king continued to silently stare at him. Toreingal imagined he could see the silent accusation burning just behind the hardened shell of his uncle's cold grey eyes.

Toreingal did not know how long he stood there in that maddening silence with Thranduil' unbroken gaze boring into his soul, but as the second's continued to crawl by, he began to realize that if he did not say what he had come to say quickly, he never would. If he lost his nerve now and did not confess his sins now, he knew he would almost assuredly die of shame and guilt. Or if the Valar did not see fit to grant him such a merciful punishment as death, he knew the festering guilt that was slowly eating away at him would only continue to haunt him like the ghost of some restless spirit for the rest of his life. 

Toreingal involuntarily shuddered. The horribly dismal prospect of living out the rest of his immortal existence with such guilt was what finally made him find his voice.

"I – I am sorry, uncle," he finally managed to choke out in a timid voice, "I failed you..." 

Thranduil said nothing, nor offered him any encouragement as to wether to go on or stop. Toreingal's eyes remained riveted to his chosen point on the ground. He did not have to look up to know his uncle's gaze had not slackened in the slightest from off him. 

"I came as soon as I heard your message to Lord Elrond," Toreingal said hurriedly, as if afraid to let the heavy silence of the room return. "I had to see you...I – I had to apologize..." A noticeable waver entered the elf's voice, making his words shaky and hitched. His eyes began to mist over with renewed grief and shame. Toreingal had resolved himself long before coming to Thranduil's tent that he would not disgrace himself by crying like a child in front of his austere uncle. But now that he actually stood in front of Thranduil, he seemed unable to restrain the flood of tears threatening to overspill his defenses at any second. 

"I am sorry. I failed you. I failed Legolas," he choked out in an extremely unstable voice. Shameful tears began to form in the corners of the distraught elf's eyes despite his attempts to hold them back. He began to ramble, and take on a slightly hysterical tone as he pushed on. "I do not deserve to stand before you and beg for your forgiveness. I am a disgrace for my failure. I do not deserve to be called a warrior of Mirkwood, for I failed in my duties to both you and Legolas... If I wasn't for me, he might still be alive. I failed him. I should have been there. Legolas–" Toreingal broke off sharply with a hollow sob, unable to continue. Unrestrained tears leaked down from the corners of his eyes and streamed down his pale and waxy cheeks in small rivulets of salty water. The once proud and self-righteous elf's shoulders quivered with somehow restrained sobs as he hung his head lower in deeper shame. 

Without breaking eye contact on Toreingal, Thranduil slowly rose to his feet and stood to face his sobbing nephew. Toreingal tensed and cringed back, expecting Thranduil to finally speak and confirm everything he had just confessed: that it was his fault Legolas was dead, that he failed in his duties, and that he was a disgrace to the royal family... 

But no such harsh reprimands came. Instead another stagnant silence filled the tent.

Toreingal waited for what felt like eternity. He stared with rapt focus down at the small tuft of grass several inches in front of where Thranduil stood. Finally unable to bare the empty silence of the room any longer, the elf chanced a glance up at his uncle's face. 

But instead of finding the elven king's gaze set firmly on him as he so dreadfully believed they would be, Toreingal found Thranduil staring down at a small square of folded paper laying in the palm of his hand. The elf-lord looked to be lost in deep thought.

Toreingal stood uncertainly, wondering whether to wait for Thranduil to speak or to try and make another apology to break the silence. 

But before he had to make any such decision, Thranduil finally spoke. 

"I sent you to Rivendell with Legolas to protect him..." he said quietly in a distant sort of voice. His tone was soft and edged with pain. His liquid grey eyes slowly rose from off the object in his hand and met Toreingal's. "Why weren't you there to protect him?"

There was no hint of accusation in the king's question, only an attempt to understand why things had gone wrong. But Toreingal still felt like his heart had just been skewered through with a hot stake of guilt. 

"I –I am sorry, uncle," he murmured as his eyes dropped like dead weights back down to the floor. He could not stand to see the pained anguished swirling in Thranduil's eyes because he felt he was the one responsible for causing it. He stared down at the ground, wishing the earth would just open into a bottomless chasm and swallow him whole so that he would not have to hear the confused pain of his uncle's voice any more. "I – I tried to watch over him, but... I failed. It is my fault Legolas is dead. If I hadn't gotten into a fight with that dwarf, I may have been there by Legolas' side when it happened. I may have been able to stop it... But I wasn't there. It was all my fault..."

The elf's shoulders shook with mounting hysterics. "If I had known, I would have never left Legolas..." he cried piteously into his own chest, avoiding Thranduil's gaze at all costs. His hands clenched and unclenched agitatedly at his sides, as though barely restrained from flying up to cover his tear-streaked face. But even in his distraught state, the proud elf still retained some sense of pride and would not allow himself to do such a shameful thing as hiding his face in front of the one who he had come to admit his failure to. 

Thranduil stood as still and silent as a statue, watching Toreingal break down before his very eyes despite the elf's obvious attempts to control himself. A deep pain shined in the father's ancient grey eyes as he looked down upon his sobbing nephew with emotionless detachment. 

"He trusted you," Thranduil said quietly, sadly looking back down at the well-fingered note in his hand, "Legolas always trusted you. You were his only cousin on his mother's side. He trusted you like a brother. He once told me years ago that he would have trusted his life in your hands..." The elven king slowly shut his eyes and closed his fist, crushing the note bitterly into the palm of his hand. "But he's gone now..." he whispered more to himself than his nephew.

Whatever had been left of Toreingal's self control was instantly demolished in that moment by the painful truth of Thranduil's words. Flood gates were opened as he hung his head even lower in shame and guilt and sobbed loudly in unabashed tears. His lower lip trembled uncontrollably as tears soaked down his sickly pale cheeks. Violent sobs shook the elf's slender shoulders. "I'm sorry, uncle," Toreingal cried out miserably, shaking his head as if trying to unroot the memory of his failure. "I'm sorry...It was all my fault..."

Without warning, Thranduil swept forward and wrapped his distraught nephew in his arms, crushing the elf to his chest. Toreingal froze, not knowing what to make of this. His tears were momentarily forgotten. He stood stiffly in perfect silence, unsure of what to do. Thranduil had never embraced him before and he found himself rather taken off guard by Thranduil's sudden actions. He had never known Thranduil to ever show make such an intimate gesture before in his entire life. Becoming slightly uncomfortable in such close proximity to his usually reserved and stoic uncle, Toreingal was about to make another feeble apology to Thranduil for his failure just to break the awkward silence of the room when he suddenly felt a soft sob choke out beside his ear. 

Startled, Toreingal tried to pull away from Thraduil's embrace, but only felt himself hugged tighter to the older elf's chest. Toreingal stood frozen in panic as another hitched sob sounded against his neck from his uncle. Thranduil was crying! He had never seen his uncle cry, let alone show much of any outward signs emotion under his regal, stone-like stoicism. Though not directly blood-related, Toreingal was closer to his uncle in this aspect than almost any of the king's own children. Now clutched to his weeping uncle's chest, Toreingal found himself frightened, scared, and completely unsure of what to do or say to consul the grieving elf. He wanted to run and hide. He didn't know what to do. With Thranduil as either the commanding monarch or stoic elder male family-figure, he knew where he stood and how he was expected to act. But now, with Thranduil reduced to this sobbing, wretched mass, Toreingal felt helpless and naked in knowing what to do. He had never had to try and comfort another's emotional distress before in his life. 

"Uncle...?" he ventured timidly, completely lost at what else to say.

As though regaining some control over himself, Thranduil slowly raised his head from off Toreingal's shoulder with a muffed sob. Silently cupping the back of his nephew's head in his hand, Thranduil abruptly pulled the younger elf's head down into the hollow of his shoulder in an almost paternal gesture and rested his tear-streaked cheek atop Toreingal's head. 

Quietly, in a voice of strained composure, Thranduil finally spoke, his voice muffled into his nephew's disarranged blond hair which reminded him painfully of his dead son's. "Do you remember that one summer when you and Legolas were only about twenty years old, and decided the two of you were going to go off into the forest alone and hunt giant spiders?" he said softly.

Despite his unease, guilt and grief, Toreingal felt an unbidden smile of reminiscence pull across his face at the slightly embarrassing memory. "How could I forget?" he conceded, "Legolas and I thought that if we captured a giant spider, we could earn ourselves warrior status before we were even old enough to braid our hair..." 

A choked kind of laugh sounded from Thranduil as a small smile also unconsciously formed across his wet, tear-stained face. "I remember the way you two looked when you came back..." he reminisced with a faint chuckle with tears still glistening in his eyes, "Wet and looking like a pair of drowned rats..." He felt a reluctant shudder of suppressed laughter vibrate up against him as Toreingal also recalled the image of two young elves returning from the forest: cold, wet, and hungry after a sudden summer thunderstorm had cut their adventurous excursion short; leaving them empty handed, giant spider-less, and with nothing to show for their troubles but the shattered egos of two young, overconfident elflings. Both their mothers had _not_ been pleased, and it was several weeks later until the two cousins were allowed back out onto the palace grounds by themselves again... 

"It was all Legolas' idea to go out..." Toreingal murmured defensively into Thranduil's shoulder, starting to feel himself become strangely comfortable and safe there in his uncle's arms. 

"Interesting..." Thranduil mused to himself, "Legolas always said it was your idea..." 

A chortle of muffled laughter broke out between the two as the flickering candlelight of the tent reflected off the glistening trails of still-fresh tears on their cheeks. Their soft laughter slowly died away and a reminiscent silence returned, filled with the heavy presence of the dead and his memories left behind.

Sobered by the crushing return of reality that the one they spoke of was gone forever and never to return, Toreingal felt himself again struggling to hold back a flood of renewed grief. "I will miss him..." he whispered. Though he tried not to shame himself any more than he already had, tears were again beginning to seep down from the corners of his steel-grey eyes and soak into the soft fabric of Thranduil's robes. He buried his face into Thranduil's shoulder. "I am sorry, uncle..."

A sob, muffled into his hair, was all that answered him. Though Toreingal could not see his uncle's face, he knew it was a swimming kaleidoscope of grief and pain.

Struggling to hold his composure, Thranduil closed his eyes and nestled his cheek deeper into the soft pillow of his nephew's thick blond hair, trying to somehow find some link back to that distant past when he had used to cuddle his youngest child's head up under his chin when Legolas had still been nothing but a tiny infant in his arms. 

"Legolas was stolen from both of us..." he said quietly as tears of anguish began to well up in the corners of his eyes, "I do not blame you, my nephew... I blame the dwarf that took my son away from me." Like a floodgate breaking open, all his bitter despair and grief came rushing to the surface. He hugged Toreingal closer, burying his face into the younger elf's flowing mane of hair. "I always tried to warn Legolas of the treachery of Dwarves, but he never listened..." he muffled as his shoulders began to shake with helpless sobs. Hot and bitter tears began to crack through the proud and cold exterior of Thranduil's stoic-king facade, revealing him for the thing he truly was deep down beneath all those layers of pointless stoicism: a grieving father. "He was too innocent and naive in many ways of the world. He believed that good existed in all people... It was a gift and a curse... He trusted too readily. And now look where his faith and good-will in people got him..." he cried piteously into his nephew's hair. Breaking down into hysterical sobs, Thranduil clutched the younger blond elf to his chest and began to rock back and forth on his heels, swaying to the rhythm of his grief.

Choking on his own tears, Toreingal felt the final bit of self-control he had been holding onto crumble to pieces at the sound of his uncle's anguished pain. Unable to feel anything but bitter grief welling up in his heart, Toreingal's arms slowly rose from where they had been laying limp at his sides and wrapped themselves around his uncle's back, finally returning the hug he had either been too proud or too embarrassed to return only minutes before. Though Thranduil had said he did not blame him for Legolas' death, he could not help but think that there was something he had missed. Something he else he could have done that would have prevented his cousin's death. He still could not help think it was his fault Legolas had died. He buried his face into Thranduil's shoulder, mingling his bitter tears and cries of lament with his uncle's as Thranduil continued to gently rock him back and forth in his arms, as if not only trying to comfort his grieving nephew but also himself.

Their anguished cries sang a soft lament as they stood there locked in each other's arms. Bound together in the solidarity of their grief, they clung to each other for support. And as they shared in each other's pain and loss, they felt a certain connection form between them – a connection of comfort and strength. A connection born from the realization they did not have to suffer their pain alone. 

Thranduil felt his tears slowly begin to subside and a sense of control return, as if the worst of his grief was finally being drained out of him like a venomous poison being leeched from his system. He slowly raised his head. His cheeks glistened with a coat of salty tears. Toreingal's face still remained firmly planted in the crook of his neck, weeping softly. Bringing one hand up, Thranduil tenderly stroked at the back of his nephew's head, as if trying to coax out the pain from the distraught elf. Toreingal's muffled sobs only increased as he felt Thranduil gently resettle his cheek on the top of his head and hug him closer, as if in reassurance. As he quietly pet the back of his wife's sister-son's golden head, the ancient king suddenly realized how tired he was. How tired and... empty. 

Closing his eyes, Thranduil took a deep breath. "Do not worry..." he whispered softly as he drew his nephew's head closer up under his jaw. "Legolas will not go unavenged..." Toreingal's sobs slowly lessened, as if quieting to listen to his uncle. Biting back the bitterness in his voice, Thranduil whispered in a low, conspiritous tone, "The one that did this to Legolas will not go unpunished. He will pay for his crimes. If Elrond will not hand over the treacherous dwarf that killed my son, then we will go and seek justice ourselves... That dwarf will pay – him and everyone else that stands with him. He will rue the day he ever thought to assassinate my son... Before tomorrow's sun sets, Legolas' soul will finally be able to rest peacefully in the Halls of Mandos knowing that his murder has finally been avenged..."

But as Thranduil hugged his nephew closer, the younger blond elf had to wonder if such vengeful bloodshed would ever actually put his dead cousin's soul to rest.

******

The night was dark. Dark and bleak. 

Celion hugged herself subconsciously as a chilly nighttime breeze whistled past her and across the open clearing in which Thranduil's army of warriors camped. Standing at a distance from any of the glowing campfires, she stood on the far edge of the grassy field just under the outstretched reachs of the surrounding trees' canopies, hidden in darkness. Silver shafts of moonlight filtered down around her through the leafy boughs and branches. The tall trees of the ancient forest through which her king and his division of warriors were marching through stood like towering sentinels of wood around her, flanking her like the royal guards of some woodland princess. 

Around the perimeters of the flickering campfires of the encampment, Celion could see the sharp outlines of her fellow warriors sitting like black paper cutouts against a background of orange. Every so often she would catch a small snatchet or whisper of murmured conversation drift across to her on the wind, but for the most part, all that filled the vacant vacuum of sound was the soft chirping of insects singing their nighttime concerts. And she liked it this way. 

She need to be alone to think. To somehow piece together and put into perspective all that had transpired in less than the span of a week; all that now moved her and all those around her in what seemed like some crazy downward spiral that was slowly dragging all of them down into some unknown darkness of uncertainty and doom; Legolas... the youngest son of her king, the one sole cause of all the pain and grief that was single-handedly leading them down this path of darkness and destruction they all now traveled. 

As she watched the flickering light of the campfires dance in the distance where no sound could reach her, Celion stood pondering the one whose death had erupted this war she now found herself about to fight. Thranduil wanted revenge, and he wanted it in the justless slaughter of dwarves, the ones he blamed his son's death on. 

~Legolas... I never knew you myself, but I knew _of _you...~ the voice in the back of her head whispered. She felt she had to direct her train of thoughts directly at Legolas, as though she were talking right to him, so that in doing so she might somehow understand and see what had made this elf so special or important that the lives of so many innocent people now stood on the brink of destruction just because of his ill-fated death. 

~From what I have heard from those that knew you, you were a brave and noble person – a true prince. One who would readily give his life for another... If even half of what they say about you is true, then you were truly one to mourn for, and one I will regret never knowing... I cannot imagine what your father must be going through – the pain of losing a child... Unimaginable... But why does he so blindly seek revenge?~ 

She paused and looked thoughtfully up above into the vast, silver-speckled dome of the heavens, as if trying to divine answers from the endless sea of stars. 

~It was a terrible thing what happened to you – an accident and tragedy, that is no doubt... But why? Why must your death spell the deaths of so many countless others. Surely you would not have wanted such a thing. Why instead of mourning for his son, must Thranduil start war and only cause more pain and death? Does he truly believe it will ease the pain he already carries? I fear for the future and what it holds. I fear what will happen when Thranduil goes to make his revenge...For this will come to no good...~

Celion stood silent and still, gazing up at the night sky. As she listened to the quiet drone of insects around her, the night seemed to grow even darker and lonelier than when she had first broken away from the company of her fellow warriors. She could feel the empty hopelessness of the doom she knew was to come press in around her, making her feel alone and frightened. Many were going to die tomorrow. Many innocent lives were going to be destroyed. And for what? The aimless revenge of a grieving father. 

The thought made Celion both frightened and angry. She felt pity and sorrow for Thranduil's loss; just as all elves mourned for the loss of all innocent life. But she could find no pity in her heart for her king and what he was doing. So many lives – both Dwarves and Elves– were to be forfeited, and all because of one. Was that really right? Was there really any balance or justice in that? What closure for his son's death would Thranduil find in the pointless killing of so many others? 

The blond field commander sighed wearily. 

There was no justice. There would be no closure for Thranduil's pain because he was just causing more. It was so wrong, but she was helpless to stop it. Celion shook her head sadly. It was just so wrong...

"No good will come from this..." she murmured as she shook her head slowly in despair. The world was so unfair and cruel. 

It was with mild disgust and contempt for her helplessness and the cruelty of the world in which she lived that the elf turned to return to camp. But as she moved to step back out into the silver moonlight of the field, a quiet feminine voice echoed out from the darkness of the forest behind her. "Perhaps the good you speak of is all in the eye of the beholder..." it whispered like the touch of ice on skin. 

Celion immediately tensed and spun around on her heels, her hand flying to the long elven knife at her side. "Who's there?" she demanded as her eyes scanned the impenetrable wall of darkness before her. Her heart hammered against her chest as she unsheathed her weapon and held it before her defensively. She could see nothing in the moonlight-streaked gloom of the dark forest. "Who's there?" she called out again into the deep shadows, her voice hitched with the faint note of fear. She could hear the frightened pulse of her blood pounding in her ears. She knew not how or why, but she knew this voice meant her no good. As like a foreboding sixth sense, she could feel an aura of evil permeating the air. 

"You are afraid of the coming war..." the voice whispered softly from out the depths of blanketing darkness of the surrounding trees, as if it had emanated from the very air itself; unplacable – everywhere and nowhere all at once. "I can smell your fear," it commented omnipresently to the frightened elf, "It practically seeps from your pores. I can smell it like the scent of perfume..."

"Who are you?" Celion demanded again as she took a hesitant step deeper into the shadow-draped forest of trees, searching to pin-point the location of the mysterious speaker. She took another step. She didn't know what possessed her, but she felt compelled to seek out this voice. A frightened buzz rang in the back of her head as she scanned the gloomy shadows of the surrounding trees. She was scared, she was not about to deny it. 

"Ah, what a wonderful scent fear is..." the voice sighed as if in appreciation, "I have missed it for too long..." As if hypnotically drawn to the mysterious voice, Celion continued to slowly advance deeper into the forest, intent of finding its speaker. "It is such a wonderful scent," the voice continued, " Almost an aphrodisiacal aroma of salty-sweetness. Do you know why fear is such a wonderful scent? Because it is the smell of power, the smell of domination, the smell of control over those lesser than you who are at your complete mercy... Oh, it has been too long since I last smelled it... What a wonderful scent... Once my revenge is complete, I will perfume the world in this scent. My darkness will flow over the world and I will make the scent of fear become so strong that those that cower under my power will choke on it..."

By now, the low flicker of campfires from Thranduil's camp had disappeared behind a wall of trees. Celion stopped, and with a sharp jolt of realization she realized she could no longer see the clearing or any of her company. She was now alone and surrounded by ghostly shadows and darkness. Dark outlines of trees ringed around her, hewing her in. A shiver of apprehension ran up her spine. Knife drawn up in front of her chest, the female elf looked around warily. "Who are you? What do you speak of?" she demanded in the strongest voice she could muster as she stopped and began to turn in a slow circle, scanning the entire perimeter of where she stood. 

"Who I am is of no importance to you..." the mysterious speaker replied dispassionately in an icy cold voice. "But what I plan to do is..." 

Celion could now detect a cold presence in the air around her, like the cold breath of winter on the back of her neck. She stood frozen in place, desperately searching for the mysterious voice's origin. Raw fear sat in the pit of her stomach like a pile of ice cubes. She felt as though she could feel the very eyes of Evil on her, watching her from the shadows. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead, matting several stray strands of blond hair to the sides of her face. A small voice like a warning bell was now screaming through her head to flee from this mysterious voice, to run and escape while she still could.

But she couldn't. She felt strangely drawn to the voice by its dark and ominous words, like a magic spell had been woven into the mysterious woman's words. Celion felt as if all her will to resist had been drained from her body. 

"Before I begin my second reign of darkness," the dark voice said, "I want to see the final sunderance of my two greatest enemies. I want to see them spill each other's blood and destroy whatever last little shred of alliance may still exist between them. They have done well in alienating each other and planting the seeds of mistrust between the two races themselves, but I want to personally see the final coup de grâce that will shatter the possibilities of any such future alliances as the first one that sealed me away in that cave all those years ago." The voice was now sadistically gleeful, excitedly reciting all of her plans of revenge. "All I needed to do was set the ball in motion and give them a little push in the right direction... It will be so sweet of a revenge to just sit back and watch them destroy themselves..." An cold, mirthless laugh rang out through the darkened shadows of the forest. 

Celion, who knew nothing of what the dark voice spoke of, stood in a frightened trance of confusion. What was this woman talking about? What... 

But then it all began to make sense. Thranduil. The war. Legolas. The Dwarves. 

Had Prince Legolas' death somehow been plotted to be nothing more than a catalyst for this dark voice's revenge? Was the impending war between Elves and Dwarves nothing more than the workings of an old grudge? 

To Celion, she knew how impossible and unlikely it all seemed. But it all fit. What else could this dark woman be talking about?

The war...

The single thought shot through her brain like a red hot poker. 

~I must warn the king~ she thought with an intense jolt of urgency. Like a moment of crystal clear vision, she knew what she needed to do. She had to warn Thranduil of this. She had to stop all this from happening. 

But as she went to turn and race back in the direction of the elven camp, Celion found herself unable to move. It was like all the muscles of her body had suddenly been paralyzed. Her mind raced in panic as she desperately struggled to make her body respond to her urgenty calls to flight. But nothing happened. She could not even make the tips of her fingers twitch; so powerful and complete the unnatural paralysis of her body was. 

"Now, now..." the dark voice tisked admonishingly in a cold humorless tone, "Don't be so quick to run away just yet. That's rude. There is still one more thing I must do before tomorrow's battle. Only one more thing I have to do to make sure that there will be no unexpected problems that could potentially ruin my plan..."

The darkness around the paralyzed elf deepened. She could now feel a distinct chill in the air as if all the warmth had been sucked right out of it. Staring helplessly ahead, she watched in horrified disbelief as a dark shadow seemed to separate itself from the surrounding gloom of the forest directly in front of her and materialize into what looked like the form of a person. She could see no face or features in heavy gloom surrounding the dark figure, but she could see it was a person; tall, extremely thin, and unexplainably evil. 

"Hmm, yes, just one more thing to do..." the shadow figure sang tunelessly, "One more thing. One last step..."

The shadow figure slowly glided towards the paralyzed elf like a predator moving in for the kill. As she watched the black figure move toward her, Celion felt fear, like bile, rise up in the back of her throat. She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. She wanted to escape this nightmare she was in. The tiny voice of self-preservation was now ringing through her skull, screaming at her to flee from this dangerous apparition of darkness. But she couldn't. She was frozen where she stood, helpless to do anything but watch as the ghostly form continued to slowly advance on her.

"Yes...Just one more thing..." it whispered with dark, sinful pleasure. It glided ever closer, its prey staring back at it with bright, fear-widened eyes.

It was getting closer. Fifteen, ten, now less than five feet away. 

The female elf watched in horrified terror. The dark shadow was now almost close enough to touch her. Her blood throbbed in her ears; her muscles strained to move even the tiniest bit to somehow defend herself, but still she could not. She was paralyzed.

"One more thing..." the shadow sang as if chanting a dark and sinful prayer to some ancient god of death. 

As Celion helplessly watched in the grips of some paralyzing spell of black magic, the dark shadow slowly stepped into a dim shaft of moonlight that had managed to filter down through the thick canopy of leaves above. And as the silver moonlight lit the dark shadow's face, Celion felt the terror that had been slowly coiling itself into a tight ball in the center of her chest explode. She would have gasped or screamed in horror and revulsion if her voice hadn't been silenced in her throat by the dark spell holding her captive. Her instincts screamed at her to run. But she couldn't. She couldn't! 

"Just one more thing..." 

A pale, skeleton-like hand slowly reached out for the frozen elf. Its bony fingers groped the air greedily as they drew ever closer to the warrioress' face. 

~No! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!~ Celion wanted to scream at the top of her lungs as the emaciated hand drew ever closer to her, like a grandmother reaching out to stroke the cheek of her favorite grandchild. But she could find no voice in her throat to cry out in fear. She knew it was no tender touch she was intended to receive. She could actually feel the coldness radiating out from that wretched, skeletal hand; she could feel its malcontent. She knew that whenever it finally did touch her skin, it would be like the touch of Death; cold, dark and pitiless.

She tried to scream, but her throat felt constricted and silenced by the same paralysis that seized her body. She tried to struggle, but she was nothing more than a living statue of flesh and blood. The fingers kept moving closer and closer. She could feel the air around her grow colder as the hand continued to slowly extend out towards her as though that single moment of time had been stretched out to span the entire length of eternity. 

"Just one more thing..."

She couldn't let those fingers touch her. She couldn't...

But then they did. 

A rush of cold shot through her body like shards of ice driven through her flesh. The cold seemed to seep into the very core of her being and freeze the marrow of her bones to ice. Her mind stiffened in shock though her body remained as stiff and rigid as ever under the spell of unnatural paralysis that froze her body. Fear and surprise shined in the female elf's eyes as she stared back helplessly into the cold, merciless blue eyes of her attacker. 

~No... Help...~ 

A wicked grin spread across the ghastly face of her dark attacker at the sight of unmistakable fear shining in the elf's eyes. A mouthful of crooked, rotten teeth set into the mold of blackened gums smiled back at Celion. 

"Just one more thing..." The very voice of Death whispered to her from behind those rotten black teeth. "One more thing..." And with that, the horrible apparition swooped in on the paralyzed elf.

One of the last things Celion saw before a cold and empty abyss of endless darkness rushed up to meet her like liquid tar, was her attacker's brilliant blue eyes – immortal elven blue eyes, she thought with sudden jolt of realization– ablaze with a dark and unholy light that froze her very soul cold. And as the elven demon Eronel leaned down over her helpless victim, a strangled cry of utter fear and horror finally broke free from Celion's throat from under the dark and powerful spell rendering her motionless and rang out through the night until it finally faded into the distance and from the air...

A heavy, unbroken silence hung over the forest as the moon continued to cut its eternal path across the midnight sky high overhead. Hesitantly, a single squeak of cricket legs rubbing together somewhere deep inside the still forest sounded, breaking the suffocating silence like a hammer to a piece of glass. As if a signal of all clear had been given, the drone of insects slowly began return and fill the void of silence as they struck their nighttime choirs back up into full operetta. The hypnotic drone continued to deepen until it sounded like nothing had even happened at all.

As the night returned to normal and the heavy aura of tension seemed abate, a lone figure slowly emerged from out of the heavy darkness of trees and stepped into the soft silver moonlight of the wide, grassy field Thranduil's escort was encamped. The pale moonlight shined off the slightly disheveled blond half of the slender figure, ringing her head in a silvery halo of light.

Returning the naked blade of her elven knife back to the sheath at her hip, Celion glanced in the direction of Thranduil's camp. Standing in the moonlight, the warrioress calmly scanned her eyes over the camp, as if silently appraising it as she watched some of the dark figures sitting around one of the low burning campfires nearest her quietly break away from the group and head in the direction of several bedrolls laying scattered across the ground several yards away. 

A small smirk slowly spread across her face as she broke her eyes away from the camp and held one slender hand up in front of her face. She turned it from front to back as if both admiring her nails and reading the delicate lines of her palm at the same time. Finally dropping it back down at her side, the corner of the elf's lips curled up into a roguish grin. 

"Let the game begin..." she smiled devilishly as she turned her eyes back onto the elven camp several hundred feet away and grinned even wider. To anyone observing the elven shield-maiden at that moment, they might have noted the strange and unnerving glint shining in the fathomless black pupils of her eyes. And they also might have shuddered at the icy coldness of her voice as a low and sinister chuckle rumbled under her breath like the ominous roll of thunder on the horizon. 

But no one was there to have witnessed Celion reemerge from the dark depths of the forest or now see her toss her head back over her shoulder and laugh with a malicious sort of glee that could have chilled blood.

"Oh, yes..." she whispered into the night, "This body will do just fine. I will have front seat for all of tomorrow's events..."

And with that, she turned and headed for the camp. 

*****

TBC... August 9th

*****

Did anyone catch that? If you didn't, scroll back up a little and look at that teeny tiny blurb about to be continued...

Hm hm hm... okay, everybody back?

No! Your eyes did not deceive you! You read right. Since I've been on such a long hiatus, not only have I written chapter 11 for "Writings on the Sword" but also chapter 12!!! Is anybody else as shocked about that as I am? But yes, chapter 12 will be promptly posted on August 9th, 2003 (that's a Saturday, by the way). 

I am leaving tomorrow to go on vacation down to Orlando (ha ha... anyone else see the irony in that), Florida for a week with my friends and won't be back until then. Assuming I don't have any lay-overs or delays in that vast maze/insane asylum I like to call the Pittsburgh International Airport, I should have it up and posted sometime by early evening. 

So keep an eye out for it because it's... (hmm, how do I put this that you'll be compelled to read it?)... the chapter you've been waiting for...

'Till then,

I'm LAXgirl,

signing out

P.S. Please, I _really _hate to beg and grovel, but can I please please please have a review? Please...? 


	12. Return of Light

I'm sorry. I know I said I was going to update immediately after I got back from vacation, but airports, storm delays, and crappy baggage returns made that all but impossible. So without any further ado, I give you chapter 12. 

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings still isn't mine. 

*****

Arwen walked calmly down the darkened halls of her father, Lord Elrond's, house. The halls were empty and still. No living soul appeared to hinder the elven princess' slow but direct march. The resounding echoes of her footsteps were the only things that broke the deep, unlifting silence hanging in the air. 

She walked somberly, her face blank and eyes distant, as if she was a quiet mourner in a funeral procession. And in some strange and sad way, she felt that she was.

It was the morning after the declaration of war against the elven realm of Imladris, the day Thranduil would avenge the death of his youngest son by spilling the blood of dwarves. The city of Rivendell was deserted, its people either hiding or preparing to meet the soldiers of Thranduil's army. There had been no time to flee. Thranduil's army had blocked off one of the only possible routes of escape from the elven city. All other mountain passes out of the river valley were still blocked by late winter snows that had not yet melted from the warming temperatures of spring. They were trapped. 

A large contingent of warriors had left the city gates early that morning, riding out to meet Thranduil's army in either a last ditch effort of peace or the first stand of war. Every able-bodied warrior not stationed out of reach on Imladris' borders for patrol had ridden out. Only a few small troops of soldiers had remained behind to protect the outer defenses of the city and remaining household of the palace. All else had ridden out. 

Among those warriors had been Arwen's twin bothers, Elrohir and Elladan. Though they had just returned from more than two weeks in the wilderness and been devastated by news of Legolas' death, they refused to stay behind while their comrades went to fight and defend their home. With them to battle had also gone Aragorn, his eyes distant and face unreadable. Gandalf had also gone, astride his mighty white stallion, Shadowfax. It was hoped by Elrond that perhaps the wizard's wise and unbias nature could somehow persuade Thranduil at the last moment to relinquish his path of war. But it was a very frail hope nevertheless.

And with them had also gone Gimli, the one whose blood Thranduil's sword thirsted for. On his face when he left was the calm resolve of a man riding out to meet his death. Those dwarves that had accompanied Gimli to the elven haven of Rivendell had also gone. All of Elrond's desperate pleas begging them to flee and seek shelter from Thranduil's wrath had fallen on deaf ears. Living up to their reputation, the dwarves were obstinately stubborn. They refused to stay and hide like cowards. They would go and meet the one that wanted their blood so badly face-to-face; and if it came to it, die like warriors in battle. 

The only one to stay had been Glorfindel. The golden-haired Balrog slayer had remained behind in the Last Homely House to lead a final defense against Thranduil should he manage to break through the city's defenses and make a march on the palace and Lord Elrond. 

Rivendell had mustered more than two hundred warriors against their invading enemy. But while Thranduil had ridden to Rivendell with only a hundred and fifty, the elves of Mirkwood were infamously known for their cunning and prowl in battle. No other elven realm could boast the kind of fierce tenacity the northern wood-elves had learned to fight with over so many centuries of guarding their lands without the help of any elven rings. It would be a bloody battle indeed. 

Turning down another corridor into the north-western wing of the palace, Arwen soon came to a set of tall wooden doors standing open to the entrance of a vast, wide room beyond. She paused at the threshold, as if in a moment of reverent hesitation before slowly moving into the pale grey light beyond. 

The smell of burning incense greeted her at the doorway, filling her nose with a mixture of earthy floral scents that put a palpable feeling of sadness and regret in the air. 

A slatey grey sky stretched out overhead beyond the large picture windows lining the far side of the room. Storm clouds danced and swirled outside, threatening rain. A low roll of thunder sounded somewhere on the horizon, as though heralding the coming doom Arwen had come to that room to escape and make her final farewell to her dear friend and brother-in-heart.

"Hello, Legolas," she said softly, casting her eyes towards the far side of the room. 

She expected no answer, and indeed received none. 

The elven prince slept on quietly in his eternal state of death on the low stone alter he had been laid out on, as peaceful and indifferent to the moving world around him as the last time Arwen had seen him. Nothing had changed. His right hand still rested there atop his unmoving chest, lifelessly clutching the mighty silver bow that had served him so faithfully in life; his hair still flowed out beneath his head like a golden curtain of silk over the small pillow cushioning his head against the cold stone slab at his back; his peaceful face still glowed dimly with the waning light of his spirit; his eyes still remained drawn and shuttered like those a sleeping mortal, forever hiding the now empty sapphire depths of his eyes that had once held such life and energy in them. 

Nothing had changed...

Arwen approached the base of the low dais holding Legolas' body. Mounting it, she then stepped up beside the lifeless body of her ancient friend. She gazed down at Legolas' placid features. 

"Hello, my friend," she said softly, talking to Legolas as though his disembodied spirit might somehow hear her though the empty vessel that had once been his body. 

"Things have been different since you left us. It seems we never really knew how much you meant to us until you were already gone..." she said to Legolas quietly, rather uncertain as to how she was suppose to actually make final peace with her departed friend. As an elf, the concept of death was foreign and strange. Though she could see Death's handiwork laying right there in front of her, she still could not fully understand how everything that had been Legolas and had made up his light in life could now just be gone. It did not make sense. How could such a strong and pure life force like Legolas' just vanish? How could it just disappear with nothing left behind to mark his passing but this empty shell and a memory?

Unable to answer these questions or understand how Legolas could have just left like he had, Arwen continued on, speaking the sorrow of her heart as if they were sharing a quiet conversation together as they had done countless times before in life. 

"Aragorn misses you – we all do. But he's changed... It's like a part of him left with you. I hardly even know him anymore. He's quiet and I've caught him staring into space as if he's a hundred miles away... It's like he's lost and can't find his way back home. He doesn't see any reason to go on. He won't eat and barely sleeps... It's guilt – that's what it is. He blames himself for your death... Ever since Gimli came back, it was like the final bit that was holding him together snapped. It was horrible. There was a fight and Gimli and Aragorn said things to each other that I never thought them capable of saying. It was like they were trying to blame each other for what happened to you... I wanted to stop them, but I knew I couldn't even if I had tried, there was just too much pain there..."

A stifled sob escaped the elven princess' lips. Her eyes began to mist over, but she fought to control her tears. She could not stop now. In some strange way what she was doing felt therapeutic, like she could finally release all her pent-up sorrow and grief. 

"We've all blamed ourselves..." she choked out, catching her voice and continuing on, "We've all blamed ourselves at some point at another for what happened to you, trying to think of what more we could have done to help you..."

"I sometimes wish Gimli had never given you that dagger. At times I almost find myself almost blaming him for what happened. I know it wasn't his fault anymore than it was Aragorn's, mine, or anyone else's and I hate myself for ever even thinking such a thing. But it's like I need a scapegoat – just somebody to blame... And then I find myself almost understanding how your father must feel. I can't imagine the pain he must be going through..." 

Another choked sob. Tears were beginning to leak out of the corners of Arwen's eyes, streaking her cheeks. "But while I might understand how Thranduil may blame Gimli – as wrong and arrogant as it may be – I cannot see how he can so blindly blame all those he associates with Gimli. He would rather seek blind and unjust revenge than properly mourn for his own son..."

"The whole world's changed since you've left, Legolas. Everything. Friends fight friends and can only blame each other for their own pain; and the misguided grief of a father threatens to destroy the world with fruitless bloodshed..."

Arwen quickly wiped the back of her hand across her face, futilely trying to smear away the salty rivulets of tears from her cheeks. "I don't know how things got this way..." she told Legolas bitterly, her voice now quaking and hitched with sobs, "I just don't know... You didn't deserve to die like this. I can't help thinking how you wouldn't have wanted your death to lead to such hatred. You didn't deserve to have your memory stained with blood... Everything's just gone so wrong without you here..."

Whatever emotional dam Arwen had constructed inside herself to keep all her sorrow back for the sake of her grieving mortal lover, crumbled to pieces. She broke down, weeping openly. There was no one there to see her mourn anyway. They had all gone off to face Thranduil; all gone to further stain Legolas' memory with blood. 

Tears streamed down the fair contours of her face. Building sobs shook the elven princess' slender frame. "I just wish you were still here..." she cried hopelessly, as her hand unconsciously shot out and wrapped around the limp hand folded up over Legolas' chest, as if trying to seek strength and reassurance from the cold lifeless body of her friend. 

But as Arwen wept over Legolas' body, she suddenly realized that the hand grasped tightly in her own was not really all that cold, as if a lingering warmth yet remained. Startled, Arwen broke off her sobs and straightened up from beside the blond archer's still form. She stood, momentarily stunned, staring down at the vaguely warm hand held in her own. 

A thousand thoughts raced through her head. No... It couldn't be. There was just no possible way... She was surely deluding herself with some desperate hope... And yet... there was still a lingering warmth residing in the elf's cold hand. 

Arwen's eyes snapped up onto Legolas' face, searching for any signs of life. The elf's features remained cold and set, cast in the image of a sleeping mortal. 

No, she told herself. No. She couldn't be fooled. She could feel it. It was there, that weak lingering sense of warmth in Legolas' body. 

And then she saw it. That dim, translucent halo of light glowing up from the elf's exposed skin. For one wild moment of disbelief, Arwen thought she might be imagining it. But no. It was there, that faint glow of the Firstborn, the same glow that should have long ago faded from Legolas' body after his death. But it hadn't. It was still_ there_!

Staring in shock, Arwen heard the pounding of her blood in her ears. Her pale grey eyes swept along the prince's body, searching for more signs to confirm the one impossible thought now throbbing in her brain. 

And then there, barely visible above the collar of Legolas' soft grey velvet robe, a small creeping patch of sickly blue skin on the side of Legolas' neck caught her eye. It almost looked like a bruise from her angle, but as Arwen bent lower to examine it and tentatively pulled down the collar of Legolas' robe, the elf-maiden let out a small squeak of surprise. He heart leapt into her throat. 

"_Father!!_" she cried out, "Father, help! Please come quick!" Her shrill screams reverberated off the stone wall back into the room before finally echoing out into the silent corridors beyond. 

Arwen stood there waiting in a maddening state of suspense for what felt like forever. She held Legolas' hand tightly, as if trying to reassure the blond-haired elf to just hold on a little bit longer and that everything was going to be alright. Helpless tears stained the elven princess' cheeks as she desperately prayed that what she believed was not some cruel false hope. 

Finally, just as Arwen thought she would go insane from waiting, the hurried sound of running feet caught her ears. She spun around towards the sound just as her father, Lord Elrond, burst into the room from the darkened hallway beyond. Close behind him ran Glorfindel, also brought running by Arwen's shouts. 

"Arwen, what is it? What's wrong?" Elrond exclaimed, his parental instincts automatically assuming his daughter's screams were from her somehow being hurt or in danger. His ancient grey eyes immediately alighted on Arwen safely standing on the other side of the room beside Legolas' body. He quickly noted her tightly holding the dead prince's hand. His panic swiftly changed to confusion. "What are you doing? Arwen, you shouldn't be –" 

"Legolas...he's still warm!" she sputtered hysterically, "Please, father, help him!"

Elrond looked at his daughter uncertainly. "Arwen, I know you are upset about Legolas' death, but– "

"Father, _please_!!" she cried out desperately, cutting him off. Why couldn't he understand? Didn't he see he needed to hurry? "He's still warm! The poison– " She pointed down frantically at Legolas' neck. "Please help him!" 

Still doubtful but peeked with curiosity, Elrond calmly approached the dais. As he stepped up onto it and came to Legolas' side, Arwen obediently slipped out of his way to the other side of the alter. Her face was pulled taunt and strained with anxiety. 

Elrond looked down at the elven prince's peaceful face. He still looked the same as ever. "Now what did you...?" But before he could ask Arwen what she had seen, he saw it himself. Just above the collar of Legolas' robe on the left hand side of the prince's neck was the top of a small bluish patch of skin. 

"Oh, my gods..." His hands flew down and pulled back the edge of Legolas' collar, exposing more blue stained skin beneath. The ancient healer's eyes widened in shocked disbelief. "_Glorfindel_!" he cried out over his shoulder to where his march warden was still standing on the other side of the room. 

The golden-haired Balrog slayer was immediately there by his side. "My lord," he bowed, casting a questioning glance down at Legolas' inert body, wondering what the others had seen to have caused such sudden alarm. 

"Go to my study and bring me back the vial of water Mithrandir brought back with him from his journey. Quickly!" 

"Yes, my Lord." With no other words, Glorfindel was gone. 

"Father...?" Arwen whimpered in a small and frightened voice. 

"By Elbereth's veil..." Elrond muttered as if he had hardly even heard her. He quickly removed the bow from Legolas' ungrasping hand and dropped it to the floor beside his feet, then threw back the white silk sheet from over the lower half of Legolas' body. Grasping the collar of the prince's robes and unbuttoning the first several clasps, the elven healer then slipped his other hand beneath and pulled Legolas' left arm free from its sleeve, right up out of the robe's neck hole so that it's hem stretched down under the elf's armpit.

What it revealed made both Elrond and Arwen gasp. 

Legolas entire left arm was a dark, poisonous blue. Near the tips of his fingers, his hand had turned a gangrenous colored black. The sickness reached almost half-way up the side of Legolas' neck and spread out all the way across his naked chest to his sternum.

Elrond looked down in a mixture of revulsion and aghast horror. The last line of progression he had seen of the poison before deeming Legolas dead had been just at the base of his collar bone, the blue only just beginning to spill out over his chest. But now... Now the poison's path had consumed almost the entire left half of Legolas' torso. It was still spreading! But how could that be?! How could a poison still spread when there was no heartbeat to pump it through the bloodstream?! 

At that moment, Glorfindel returned. In his hand, he held the vial of water Gandalf, Gimli, and Toreingal had brought back with them from the enchanted waterfall of Eronel's cave. He must have run as fast as his legs could carry him for the amount of time it took for him to return. Though he did not quite understand what was going on, he had immediately picked up on the desperate urgency in Elrond's voice. As he held out the vial to the elf-lord, Glorfindel let out a startled gasp, finally seeing the grotesque bluish hue of Legolas' exposed arm and neck. 

"By the Valar..." Glorfindel uttered in a low, horrified whisper.

Ignoring his march warden, Elrond took the proffered vial from Glorfindel and slid an arm beneath Legolas' shoulders to cradle the limp body up against his chest. The elf's head rolled lifelessly into the crook of Elrond's elbow as Elrond uncorked the vial with a swift flick of his thumb and held it to Legolas' lips. Tipping Legolas' head back over his elbow, Elrond slowly began to empty the contents of the vial into the prince's mouth. He poured with agonizing slowness, trying not to pour too fast so the water would just run right back out the corners of Legolas' mouth.

Arwen and Glorfindel watched in silent transfixion as Elrond finally removed the empty vial from the elven prince's lips and began to deftly massage the elf's throat, forcing the water down his esophagus. Finally succeeding in forcing the last of the enchanted water down Legolas' throat, Elrond abandoned his ministrations. 

A tense, heavy silence filled the room as the three elves stared down at Legolas, waiting in breathless anticipation. They didn't know what exactly they expected to happen, but they could feel a certain finality hanging in the air if this did not work. They didn't know how, but they knew this was their last chance. 

"Come on, Legolas... Come on..." Elrond coaxed under his breath, unconsciously petting the hair away from Legolas' face as though trying to quietly wake a sleeping child. Legolas' lay motionless, his eyes closed and mouth slightly open but drawing no breath. "Come on. _Wake up_..." His ancient grey eyes bored into the prince's slack face, desperately searching for any minute flicker of life. Arwen and Glorfindel huddled close beside him, all of them tensely waiting for something to happen. 

Time ticked slowly by. 

Elrond stared in unwavering fixedness on the elven prince' face, but still no sign of life stirred in the motionless body. Becoming desperate, Elrond pressed two forefingers to the underside of Legolas' jaw, feeling for a pulse. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, frantic to feel even the faintest of heartbeats. But as the seconds continued to tick by without feeling even the smallest throb of life beneath his fingertips, the ancient healer suddenly knew it was a lost cause. The fragile hope that had been growing in his heart since first seeing the spreading blue track of poison on Legolas' neck shattered to pieces. 

"No..." he breathed in weary defeat, hanging his head over the lifeless body. Damn it, he cursed himself. He had almost begun to believe that by some incredible miracle there had still been some chance of saving Legolas. But he had only been fooling himself; this he now saw. What had he expected; Legolas just to sit up and stretch as if he had just awoken from a long nap? What foolishness. Legolas was dead. There was nothing he could do to change that. No amount of magic could resurrect the dead. None. What a fool he had been... 

"I'm sorry, father..." Arwen whispered as she turned her face shamefully away from her father and the lifeless body held in his arms. "I'm sorry. I just saw the blue and thought– "

"No, Arwen," Elrond reprimanded with a solemn shake of his head, "Don't. You did the right thing... It was good you saw it. Thranduil will come for Legolas' body... He does not need to know the poison that killed his son is still spreading... No father should. It would only cause him more pain. We need to hide it befor–" 

Elrond stopped mid-sentence.

His one hand still lay across Legolas' throat with his fingers still pressing lightly into the soft flesh of the prince's neck. He froze, not quite sure whether he felt what he just thought he had. He stared down at Legolas' face with an unreadable expression etched into his ageless face. 

Arwen and Glorfindel both looked at Elrond in confusion, having caught the startled hitch in the elf-lord's voice just before his abrupt halt in speech. 

Elrond's breath stilled as he pressed his two forefingers back into the soft underside of Legolas' jaw. The world around him seemed to slow and grind to a halt as he stood in perfect stillness, desperately waiting for confirmation of the one thing he was now almost afraid to believe. He waited there in a tortured suspense for what felt like forever. And then, just as he was about to give up his desperate hope and admit defeat, he felt it again. Shallow and faint, the weak murmur of a heartbeat fluttered under the tips of Elrond's probing fingers.

The ancient elf-lord almost pulled his hand away in surprise. But as another impossible throb of life pulsed up against his fingers he found himself unable to move, frozen in disbelief. Again another faint heartbeat. And then another. They came in distant intervals of each other, each several long and agonizingly slow seconds after its predecessor. But as Elrond continued to stare down at Legolas' unchanging face with an agape expression of utter disbelief and amazement, he felt the faint and weak heartbeats beneath his fingers begin to build and quicken, as if Legolas' heart was slowly beating itself back into rhythm.

A sudden jerk from Legolas' slender body startled Elrond out of his trance.

"Father, look!" Arwen gasped as she clamped a hand over her mouth and pointed down at the prince's body with the other. 

Elrond followed his daughter's pointed finger and saw that it was Legolas' left hand that she pointed at. As he watched, he saw the tips of Legolas' poison-blacked fingers suddenly twitch, as if they had just been jolted by a tiny electric shock. Elrond, Glorfindel, and Arwen all stood in transfixed shock, staring down at the dead elf's moving fingers.

The pulse beneath Elrond's fingers continued to build and quicken like the drum of a slave ship beating its oars-men into ramming speed. As Legolas' heart rate began to race wildly under his touch, Elrond felt another small jerk from the limp body in his arms. 

And then, with no further warning, Legolas erupted into life.

Like a diver breaking the surface of water after a long submersion, Legolas' back arched backwards over the strong arms supporting his back. His mouth flew open and a loud and mighty gasp of air sounded. His chest exploded upwards, his lungs inflated like balloons as he drew in the impossibly long drag of air. But as his lungs filled to capacity, the elf was immediately seized by a fit of violent coughs. He coughed and sputtered in Elrond's arms, helplessly choking on the stale air still filling his respiratory track. 

Broken out of his trance by the wild thrashes of the suddenly lively cadaver, Elrond jumped into action. Even in that moment of utter confusion and shock, Elrond retained the calm composure of a trained healer. He pulled the sputtering elf closer to his chest and began to calmly talk to Legolas as the prince desperately fought for breath in his arms. "Legolas. Legolas, you have to calm down and breath... That's it... Just breath... Breath..." he coached. As he spoke, he cupped the back of Legolas' head in his hand and expertly cradled it up at an angle that would allow better airflow into the elf's seizing lungs. "That's it, Legolas. Just breath..." 

As the elf's coughing began to slowly subside, Elrond was suddenly struck by sheer ridiculousness of what he was telling Legolas to do – the paradox of it! He was telling Legolas to breath. Breath! This to an elf who only minutes ago had been considered as dead as a mortal ten years in the grave! 

He had to keep repeating it to himself to make the words sink in. Breath...Breath... Legolas was breathing... He was alive... 

Panting weakly, Legolas fell limp in Elrond's arms. He lay motionless, his head hanging over the elf-lord's elbow. But unlike the first time Elrond had taken the elven prince into his arms, Legolas was no longer the lifeless body he had been only moments before. Elrond could now hear the soft whisper of breath whistling between Legolas' partially opened lips. He could see and feel the shallow rise and fall of the elf's chest. And though the elf's eyes remained closed, Elrond could see a weak furrow now creasing Legolas' brow, as if he were in some state of exhaustion or pain. 

Bending down over the still form in his arms, Elrond gently touched the side of Legolas' cheek with the back of his hand. Met with no resistance, Elrond slowly turned the elf's face towards him. "Legolas? Legolas, can you hear me?" he called softly, speaking with amazing calmness for the maelstrom of shock and disbelief storming through his head. "Legolas, answer me."

Like the first slip of light appearing over the horizon at dawn, the twin sapphire orbs of Legolas' eyes slowly appeared beneath the thin slits of his eyelids. Called forth from out of the darkness, the youngest prince of Mirkwood's eyes slowly eased open and gazed up into the face of his awakener with half-lidded eyes. 

He stared up at Elrond blankly for a long moment, as if unable to immediately place the strangely familiar face hovering over him. Blinking with a drugged sort of lethargy, Legolas' lips began to move soundlessly like a beached fish, as if trying to speak.

"Elrond...?" he finally managed to croak out in a dry, sandpapery rasp. His voice was so frail and weak it was barely even audible. Legolas' eyes stared up glassy and unfocused. He looked as though he were a second away from slipping back into unconsciousness. 

The elf-lord stared in dumb-struck shock, unable to comprehend what he had just heard. Legolas had just spoken. He was talking. He was breathing. He was alive. 

The last thought kept running around and around in Elrond's head, as if his mind was unable to comprehend the impossible reality of what just happened. 

Legolas suddenly began to shiver, as if his corporal senses were only now beginning to catch up with him. Whether from shock or cold, Elrond did not know. 

Blinking slowly, Legolas' eyes seemed to come more into focus. His dimmed blue eyes slowly swivelled away from Elrond's face and looked around as if in search of something. "Gimli...?" he called out in a dangerously weak voice. His voice sounded like two stone rubbing up against each other. Elrond involuntarily winced at the harsh sound of the younger elf's dry and raspy voice. With Elrond supporting the back of his neck in the crook of his elbow, Legolas sluggishly rolled his head to the side, as if half-expecting the one he called for to already be there at his side. Met with no response, Legolas called out again, his tone more pleading and urgent, "Gimli?" A distressed whine escaped the elf's lips as he was again denied the presence of his friend. He began to weakly struggle in Elrond's arms, driven by the single-minded need to locate the missing dwarf. Closing his eyes with the effort it took to muster the energy, Legolas cried out in growing desperation. "_Gimli!_"

Seeing the elf struggling to sit up on his own power, Elrond restrained Legolas against his chest. "No. No, Legolas, don't. He's not here. Gimli's not here right now..."

The blond elf cried out weakly in dismay. 

"It's ok, Legolas. It's ok. You're safe now," Elrond tried to sooth as he stroked the side of Legolas' cheek reassuringly. Legolas was now shivering uncontrollably in his arms. His entire body shook as if it had been plunged into a vat of ice water. It was not hard for Elrond to almost believe the poisonous blue of Legolas' left arm had actually been turned that color by exposure to extreme cold. Shivering helplessly, the resurrected elf collapsed limply back into the healer's arms, whimpering with exhaustion and distress. "Shh... Shh... It's alright, Legolas... You're safe now. It's alright," he soothed, unconsciously beginning to rock the shivering form in his arms as if trying to comfort a crying child. 

Legolas weakly tossed his head against Elrond's chest. "No... Gimli..." he called in a frail voice, as if his stubborn refusal to accept that the dwarf was not there to answer him would change the fact of the matter. His throat burned and his tongue felt like a dry, swollen mass in his mouth. He would have given anything for a glass of water, but the urgent need to find his missing friend was driving away any such other thoughts from his mind. "Please... Gimli..." 

"He's not here," Elrond asserted gently, unsure wether Legolas really understood anything being said to him right then. 

Straining to keep his bleary eyes in focus, Legolas fought to keep the heavy weights of his eyelids from sliding shut against his will. He clutched at the front of Elrond's robe with his poison-blue hand and looked up at him pleadingly with glassy, unfocused eyes. "Please..." he whispered, struggling to sound coherent, "Please... Where is he? I have to warn him... Eronel – she's planning something... Please... Have to warn him. Where is he?"

Elrond held the shivering body to him closer. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't tell Legolas where Gimli had actually gone – not now with Legolas in his current condition. He was in no shape to know what had transpired since his...demise. 

"Shh... It's ok. We'll find him, Legolas. Don't worry. We'll find him," Elrond assured complacently, wanting only to the hush the younger elf's plaintive cries before he exhausted himself any further in his already dangerously weak state.

"Please. I have to find him... Eronel... Have to warn Gimli...Have to stop her..." he slurred persistently, unaware that he was beginning to babble in his incoherency. "Please...Gimli!"

Elrond hugged the elf tighter. "It's ok, Legolas. We'll find him. I promise." 

As if appeased by Elrond promise of finding his missing friend, Legolas finally relinquished his struggles and wearily sagged back into the elf-lord's arms. His head rolled limply against Elrond's chest. Shivering violently, he clutched at the front of Elrond's robes. "Please help... I'm so cold..." he whispered in a dying voice, as if slowly fading out of consciousness. He huddled closer to the older elf, as if seeking warmth.

Elrond instinctively pulled the shivering creature closer to him, trying to offer Legolas what little heat and reassurance he could. "Oh gods..." Elrond muttered as he felt the elf continued to violently vibrate up against him, "He's freezing..." 

Reaching down towards Legolas' feet, the ancient healer grabbed the thin white sheet that had once served as a burial mantle for the young prince and pulled it up over the shivering mass in his arms. Legolas moaned vaguely in pain as Elrond's fingertips accidentally brushed over the exposed skin of his infected blue arm, but fell quiet again as the elf-lord continued to wrap him in the makeshift blanket. Fatigue and exhaustion were quickly stealing the resurrected elf of his only recently regained consciousness. His head rolled heavily into the hollow of Elrond's shoulder and remained there, his eyes slowly drifting shut. He desperately fought to stay awake. He had to; he needed to find Gimli... But his eyelids were so heavy... And he was just... so... tired... 

"How can this be...?" Glorfindel murmured in unmasked wonder and disbelief as he watched Legolas slip into a shallow, fitful sleep. He stared dumbly down at the shivering blond bundle cradled in Elrond's arms as if unable to comprehend what he saw. "I don't understand how this is possible... He has been dead for almost a whole week now... How did this happen?" He looked up at Elrond, as if expecting the ancient elf-lord to hold the answers to these questions. Arwen, as if finally shaken out of her trance too, looked up at her father with the same questions burning like fire in her pale grey eyes.

Elrond shook his head in grim disgust. A theory had begun to form in his mind of how such a miracle could have taken place, but he was afraid to recognize it. What it meant if he was right was something so terrible he did not even want to think it. But there was just no other explanation. He had said it himself: no amount of magic could resurrect the dead... None. Which meant only one thing...

"Legolas was never dead..." 

Glorfindel and Arwen stared at him as if they were not quite sure if they had heard him correctly or not. "What...?" Glorfindel murmured. 

"He was never dead," Elrond repeated, looking down at the shivering bundle in his arms as he spoke, "The poison was still spreading. Don't you see? There would have been no other way for it to have kept doing so if Legolas had not been alive."

"But...but you examined him yourself," Arwen persisted skeptically, "You were there with Aragorn when you found him dead. There's no way you could have missed such a thing if he were still alive."

Elrond winced slightly at the unintentional call against his competency as a healer. "No, I wouldn't have if he had retained anything along the lines of a normal heartbeat... He must have been in some kind of deep sleep or coma where his heart was beating just fast enough to keep him alive. If that was the case, then it must have been beating so slow that I either did not catch it or was so weak I did not feel it at all." 

"Are you saying Legolas has been laying here _alive_ this past week?!" Glorfindel exclaimed in utter horror. His eyes immediately alighted onto Legolas' shivering form curled up in Elrond's arms as if unable to believe how the prince could have survived such an ordeal. 

"But what could have put him in such a state?" Arwen demanded, "The poison could not have sent him into such a death-like sleep."

A shadow passed over Elrond's face. "Gimli mentioned when he returned to Rivendell that Eronel said she was the one that supposedly killed Legolas – not the poison. If there was but the smallest shred of truth in what she told Gimli, then it was her doing that put Legolas into such a state."

A frown identical to her father's appeared on Arwen's face. "But why would she have done such a thing?"

"She wanted to be released. She had already convinced Gimli that she could bring Legolas back if he died and could not afford for them to then return with the enchanted water and cure Legolas. She needed to make sure Gimli had a reason to return to her. With Gimli so distraught over Legolas' death, he played right into her plan and released her without even realizing how she had manipulated him."

"But you said Legolas was never dead," Glorfindel pointed out. "Why didn't she actually kill him?"

Elrond's frown deepened. "That is what confuses me about this. How could Eronel have attacked Legolas when she was still imprisoned in her cave almost a two days ride outside of Rivendell? There is no possible way she could have attacked Legolas unless she was somehow able to extend her magic beyond whatever force was holding her captive in that cave. But that doesn't make sense. If she was able to reach out her power, why did she not try to escape before? Why only now? Surely she would have been able to contrive a much less complicated scheme of freeing herself if she was capable of doing such a thing... Unless perhaps since Legolas was poisoned by the same weapon she had tainted with her magic and very essence, she was in some way connected to Legolas and only able to extend her powers out to him. It is possible she _did_ try to kill Legolas but was not able to. She may not have been strong enough from such a distance and only able to induce a death-like sleep to make it appear as if Legolas was dead... And when we gave Legolas the enchanted water, her magic was finally broken. Either way, the result was essentially the same. Gimli was tricked into releasing her, and had Arwen not seen the blue on his neck, Legolas would have eventually died from the poison whenever it finally did reach his heart..."

A heavy silence fell as the three elves struggled to comprehend all that had just transpired.

"By the Valar..." Glorfindel swore under his breath, "He has been alive this entire time..."

Leaning out across the stone alter, Arwen gently touched the side of Legolas' pale cheek with the back of her hand like a mother feeling the brow of a feverish child. But Legolas was not feverish by any measure. "My gods... He's freezing." 

"Legolas has been laying here on this stone slab for the past week..." Elrond muttered under his breath as he hugged the shivering blond elf closer to his chest in a subconscious act of paternal concern and protectiveness, "It would have been no different than laying on a brick of ice. He is probably suffering from some form of exposure..." He reached up and gently pressed the back of his fingers against the side of Legolas' cheek much like his daughter had just done. The prince's skin felt like black ice and his complection was far too pale for Elrond's likes. They needed to get Legolas somewhere warm. And fast. He did not know how much longer Legolas could hold out. Even without any formal examination, Elrond could see the elf was dangerously weak and dehydrated and in need of immediate medical attention.

"Gimli...?" 

Startled out of his thoughts, Elrond looked down at the shivering blond mass in his arms. 

Awoken out of his fitful doze by Elrond's touch, Legolas' again called for his friend, frail and plaintively. "Gimli...?" The blank stare from behind the half-lidded slits of his eyes revealed no sign of understanding or coherency. He called out like one half-conscious or delirious and still caught in the grips of some lucid sleep. His breath quickened as he called out again in growing desperation, "Gimli!" 

"Quickly," Elrond directed to his on-lookers as he began to hurriedly gather the limp elf up into his arms, "We must get Legolas someplace warm. He is still extremely sick." Sliding one arm beneath Legolas' knees while supporting his back with the other, Elrond lifted the impossibly light bundle up into his arms. Like a bridegroom carrying his new wife over the threshold of their house, the elf lord swept towards the doorway of the room in a whirl of flowing red robes and train of trailing white silk from off the bundled form in his arms.

"My lord..." Glorfindel called after Elrond before he could get very far. 

Elrond stopped and looked back over his shoulder. His daughter and march warden still stood at the head of the stone altar, unmoved. "What, Glorfindel?" 

The golden-haired elf shifted nervously. "My lord, what _of _Gimli?"

"What do you mean?" 

"He is still set to meet Thranduil in battle today. No one else knows of Legolas' resurrection but us; they all still believe him dead..."

The meaning of Glorfindel's words immediately struck Elrond like an iron poker of dread through the heart. The war... Thranduil and everyone else still believed Legolas was dead. Legolas' father was still moving to seek revenge for a death that never really happened. They didn't know Legolas had returned. The war was still on.

"Oh gods..." Elrond muttered. "I'd almost forgotten..." He looked down at close-lidded face of the young elf in his arms then back up at Glorfindel. "We must send word of what happened," he said in grave urgency, "They must know Legolas still lives. If we can just get word to Thranduil that his son is still alive, we may be able to prevent this bloodshed..." The ancient elf lord shook his head sharply and looked to his daughter and march warden. "Quickly, Arwen, come with me. We must tend to Legolas. Glorfindel, dispatch a messenger to Gandalf, Aragorn, and my sons at the defensive line immediately. We must let them know what happened. We must stop this war from happening. We must stop Thranduil."

With that, Elrond turned and swept towards the open doorway of the room. He did not wait or even pause at the threshold to see if Arwen and Glorfindel followed him, for he knew that they did. For in his arms he held the one living hope of them all. The last small glimmer of hope in a world of darkness and despair. Legolas was still alive. And there was still hope... 

Now it was only a race against time.

*****

TBC...

***** 

*Ducks head behind computer screen* Ah! Don't hurt me! I know I made you wait a long time for that, but wasn't it worth it? Legolas is back! Aren't you happy? *Ducks as another random object comes sailing past her* Ok! Ok! I know there were a couple people out there rooting for Legolas to permanently stay dead, but I have to point out that he never was truly dead. *Ducks again as some other random thing is thrown at her* Ah! 

'Till next time... 

P.S. Can I _please _have a review? Please...? 


	13. The Coming of the Storm

Oh my God. What is this? Can it be? OMG it is! It's an update! 

  


Hey hey! Ya miss me? Yeah, I know it's been awhile. What's it been... oh, about four months or so, give or take? Yeah, something like that. Anyway, thanks for the great response for the last chapter. I know I kind of left everybody in a tizzy about what was going to happen next. When I first posted that last chapter I was actually planning on that being the last one I was going to write for this story and I felt I had to at least get Legolas back in the picture so people won't think I really killed him off. Yeah, I had had serious debates about abandoning this story for a while there. For the last couple chapters there, feedback was less than encouraging, so I had decided to just call it quits. I mean, why should I bust my butt writing something that no one (I thought) was even reading. But then this happened! OK now, I ask you, how does chapter eleven go from less than ten reviews to chapter twelve with over _46?!?!_

  


Well, anyway, all bad feelings aside, over these last indecisive four months or so, I got a lot of people e-mailing me asking me it I was planning on continuing. And during that time I slowly began to realize that with this story being so close to being finished that I almost _had_ to finish it. So, everyone out there that's still keeping with this story, I once again give my apologizes for the long wait and humbly give you the long awaited Chapter 13! Enjoy!

  


Oh! And thanks to all the reviewers last chapter! I really got a kick out of reading them. I would respond to them, but there's not enough room here to do it. The overwhelming majority was pleased that Legolas returned (which I was happy about), although a few were a bit... hmm... how can I sum up their statements... less than enthused? Oh well, can't please everyone! So anyway, I thank everyone again for last chapter's response. Enjoy!

  


Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all associated characters belong to JRR Tolkien and are not mine, nor are they being used for profit in the telling of this story.

******

  


A slow, sad roll of thunder sounded somewhere on the distant horizon as the low rumble of its echo rolled out over the land like the announcement of an approaching nameless doom. A slatey grey sky of dispassionate rain clouds hung so low in the sky overhead that it almost seemed as if the taller trees of the verdant green forest below could almost scrape up along the underside of its swollen grey belly. The whisper of coming rain sang softly through the heart and mind like a gentle breath of wind through chimes as another rumble of thunder vibrated through the wet and chilly air of early spring, whose grasp the lingering touch of winter's icy fingers still refused to yield. 

  


Stretched out under the oppressive sky of grey stood a wide grassy stretch of land. On either side of the large open field, beyond the shadowy edges of the surrounding forest, reared up towering stone giants of rock and granite. Still dusted by early spring snow, the hulking masses of the Misty Mountains seemed to literally sprout up from the land before their snow-capped peaks finally faded away from sight into the mist and clouds above. Mist hung low around the bases of the towering mountains so that it seemed as if the massive structures of stone hovered in midair, suspended in a fog of ethereal dreams. 

  


Though the air was heavy and still with the promise of a coming storm, a certain charged tension electrified the air. It was not only the promise of rain, but the promise of blood that weighted so heavily over the land like a thick pall. For not only did the dim morning herald the promise of a coming storm, but also the promise of a coming war. For it was the morning Thranduil was to make his war against the elven realm of Imladris and the small group of dwarves it harbored in revenge for the tragic death of his youngest son. 

  


On that grassy, sloping field nestled deep between the feet of the Misty Mountains about three miles outside of the Rivendell's eastern border stood the defensive line of Imladris' forces. Over two hundred warriors had been amassed to ride out to that point and wait for the approach of Thranduil's army. Any patrol within a day's ride of the city had immediately been called back to Rivendell to answer the threat now facing their lord and land, bolstering the defensive forces to almost three hundred. 

  


But while Rivendell's forces clearly outnumbered Thranduil's, there was still doubt. The northern wood-elves of Mirkwood were notoriously cunning and fierce in battle. For countless centuries the wood-elves of Mirkwood had fought to protect their land and people in unmatched battles against invading forces much greater than their own, and always without the help of any elven rings. They were considered by many to be the best warriors in all of Middle-earth – frightfully skilled in war, fearless, tenacious, and deadly. Though they were outnumbered, few believed that would mean anything to them. They had lost one of their princes, and they were angry. They would use that anger with them in battle. 

  


But besides the fact of their northern brethren's fighting skills and wrath, there was also the unspoken fact that many of those fighting for the defense of Imladris were reluctant to face and battle those they had once considered friends and allies. Like Elrohir and Elladan had been with Legolas, many of Rivendell's warriors knew other warriors from Mirkwood who had become close friends and companions to them over the centuries. And even though the declaration of war had seemed to overnight sundered either elven realms to opposite ends of a giant, invisible gulf of broken alliances and political contention, those with such connections with the other side could not help but feel that they were about to outright murder and kill their kin in unjustified bloodshed. 

  


Elven soldiers rushed about from place to place, hurriedly doing last minute checks on their weapons and horses as they quickly organized themselves into their appropriate ranks and divisions along the forest's edge. Commanders strode through the ranks, barking out commands and last minute orders to their troops. Among those leading the defense of Imladris were the young elf-lords Elrohir and Elladan. 

  


The twins walked along the far south-western edge of the field, surveying the surrounding tree line. Though they were loath to resort to such measures, they searched the branches of the ancient oaks and maples for the best places in which they could station archers; places with clear vantage points over the open field beyond which also offered a bit of protection to the tree-borne archers from any return fire that could possible come from the very force they were trying to thin down with arrows. 

  


It was a terrible thing to have to orchestrate and possible see through to actual execution on their woodland brethren. Though the twins were ready to take any measures necessary to defend their homeland, they still could not help but see Thranduil as the grieving father of their dead friend, not the invading king hell-bent on seeking revenge for his son's death with the slaughter of innocent blood. The look of warring emotions was evident in both elves' ancient grey eyes as they scanned the trees. They did not want to have to turn their weapons on their own kin. Never before had Elves ever battled one another in such hostile warfare. Though there had been minor disagreements between the three elven realms of Middle-earth throughout the long centuries, never before had any of the elven leaders actually declared war on another realm! 

  


Not only had this war come to pit Elves against Dwarves, but also Elves against Elves. 

  


Beside Elrohir and Elladan walked Gandalf, giving his own counsel and advice to the two elves as they scanned for tactical advantage points in the trees. Though their father Lord Elrond had sent the white wizard with them in attempts of perhaps convincing Thranduil to relinquish his path of war, there was no denying that Gandalf would be useful no matter which way the confrontation with the woodland king went. He had aided in the Battle of Helms Deep and also fought in the Battle of the Pelannor Fields. The Istari's guise of an elderly old man was just that: a disguise. No one that knew Gandalf would ever dare to intentionally enrage or incur the wrath of the powerful wizard without fear of terrible retribution or hefty consequences on their own part. The knowledge that Gandalf stood ready to fight on the side of Imladris was enough to give at least some encouragement to the defending elves that they held some kind of upper hand over their enemy.

  


The chilly wet air buzzed with the heightened tension of coming battle. The palpable scent of impending doom rode the wind like a rider of Death as building zephyrs swept in across the field from the purplish thunderheads brewing on the darkened horizon.

  


But even in the face of such unjustified hate and hurt that rode towards them with the impending threat of thunder and rain, there existed a small island of quiet. A small patch of lingering sadness and regret which not even the sharp teeth of fear or inevitable death could pierce. 

  


Alone with his thoughts just under the leafy green boughs of the forest stood Gimli, the one whose blood the growing whisper of approaching battle sang for. Though elven soldiers bustled all around him preparing for battle, the stout little miner seemed to take no notice of the almost frantic actions. His dark brown eyes stared blankly ahead, dispassionately watching as angry grey storm clouds rolled and folded in on one another on the brewing horizon. The storm was approaching from the east and would soon be upon them. As would Thranduil. 

  


Battle was nigh. He could smell it in the air. 

  


In the dwarf's gloved hand leaned his mighty axe, its tip propped in the soft earthy ground beside his feet. Armor and thick chain mail adorned his stout, compact form. A heavy helm of bronze and steel sat atop his head. 

  


To any, Gimli would have appeared the perfect image of a skilled warrior ready for battle. But to those that had learned to look beneath the miner's cool outer facade, they would have noticed that he did not seem to grip his axe with as much zeal as he once would have done when the prospect of battle loomed so challengingly of a threat before him. 

  


Though Gimli's ruddy face seemed to be forged in the image of cool resolve and stoic calm, a heavy aura of dispassionate detachment from the world blanketed the air around him, like that of a man who had decided his path long ago and was now ready to meet whatever end came from his decision with no regrets. A dull cast of regretful sorrow and rueful lament resided in the chocolate brown orbs of his eyes as he stared ahead into the distance. No longer was there any glimmer of vim or life in those pained depths, only the dull husk of a spirit broken by despair and black, unforgiving guilt.

  


No emotions showed on his face, but inside, his heart ached and wept. It was because of him he now stood in that field waiting for battle to come. It was because of him Thranduil was moving to wage war on the elven realm of Imladris and all its dwarven inhabitants. And it was because of him his dearest friend, Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood, now resided in the Halls of Mandos.

  


Gimli could feel his inner resolve to remain stone-faced and stoic in the face of coming battle waver at the thought of his deceased friend. He could feel his throat constrict with a rush of unbidden emotions. _Legolas... _Gods, even after almost a week since the elf's death he still felt as if he could burst into tears at the mere thought or mention of the blonde warrior prince. He felt haunted by the elf, as if Legolas' restless spirit somehow followed him. Almost everything he saw or did somehow reminded him of Legolas and how he had failed to save possibly the one person in his life he would have truly given his life for.

  


He had failed Legolas. He had betrayed their friendship – his trust. Gods, was there anything between them he hadn't defiled or broken because of that accursed dagger?! Why did he ever give that dagger to Legolas? Why hadn't he known there was something foul on that blade? Why couldn't they have gotten back to Rivendell faster with the magic water? Why did Legolas have to die like he had alone with no one there to comfort him? Why did Legolas, even in his death throes, actually call out for him when it was because of Gimli he suffered so much in the first place? 

  


Why?! Why why whywhywhywhy?! 

  


Why... It was the one question in all the universe that did not seem to ever have an answer, but what some people spent their entire lives trying to understand. Gimli felt empty and numb from asking it so many times. 

  


_Why? Why you, Legolas? Why you of all people? Why did you have to die_? _Why?!_

  


But once again, there were no answers that the dwarf could find that could ever possibly answer such a question.

  


The world around him suddenly seemed to become blurry and distorted as Gimli felt his resolve break and all his grief and guilt once again came rushing to the surface. His dark little eyes swam with barely controlled tears. His throat was now so painfully tight he could barely breath. But he dared not open his mouth to take a deep breath, for he knew if he did he would only lose hold of this fragile remaining bit of control he had and break down into tears

  


It was as Gimli stood staring out over the grassy field trying to regain his composure and control that he was quietly joined by another whose own grief and guilt were almost equal to his. "Gimli?" came a small, tentative voice from behind him.

The dwarf slowly looked back over his shoulder to the one who had come to join him. He did not have to look to know who it was, nor did he really want to. There was still so much pain and hurt between them from their fight in Lord Elrond's study the day before... But he knew he had address his friend. "Aragorn..." he greeted in an empty tone with no discernable emotion in his voice or on his face.

The man merely nodded in reply and uneasily turned his eyes downwards. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, making the small metal links of the chain mail he had donned for today's battle jingle together softly as he moved. Though Aragorn stood dressed ready for war in amour and chain mail with his sword securely strapped around his waist and hanging down by his side, Gimli could tell the man's heart was not there backing the impressive image he otherwise presented. Though Gimli knew this was the same man he had traveled in the Fellowship with and fought beside in numerous battles, he couldn't help but think how utterly tired and... old the man now looked, as if he was nothing but an empty shell hollowed by grief and pain.

"Gimli... I- I wanted to apologize for what I said yesterday," Aragorn said in a soft, hollowed voice. The man's tired, red-rimmed eyes remained consciously turned away from the dwarf as he spoke, as if he were too ashamed to look him in the eyes. "I had no right to say those things to you. I- I don't know what came over me. I don't know why I blamed you for what happened. I know it wasn't your fault Legolas died. It was just that I felt so guilty myself for what happened that I guess I had to try and blame someone else. I'm so sorry. I know you did everything you could for Legolas. You were a better friend to him than I ever was... I know I can never truly take back all those awful things I said, and I understand if you can never forgive me for them, but I just wanted you to know that I am sorry..."

Gimli stood for a long moment of silence with an unreadable expression on his face, quietly appraising the man and his heartfelt apology. For several long heartbeats of unbearable tension, Aragorn thought the dwarf was not going to accept his apology and proclaim an official end to their friendship because of all those untrue and hurtful things he had said to him the day before. But it seemed as if Aragorn was too hasty in his assumptions and had underestimated their bonds of friendship and the extent of Gimli's forgiveness. 

"I thank you, Aragorn," Gimli said softly after a moment, turning to fully face the man, "But you are not the only one that has something to apologize for. I am also sorry for what I said yesterday," he said, now adverting his eyes to the ground to hide his shame. A watery shine had entered his eyes as if Aragorn's confession had for some reason given him reason to finally open the proverbial floodgates to all his own pent-up feelings of grief and regret. "I was wrong to accuse you of ever abandoning Legolas like that. I know that you would never do something like that. What I said was out of my own helplessness of returning in time to save the elf. You should not feel responsible for Legolas' death, because one thing you said yesterday was true: it was my fault he died – not yours. I was the one that gave him that dagger in the first place and was then unable to return in time to save him. And for that I am the one that should be sorry. Please forgive me."

Aragorn silently stared at Gimli, feeling his heart break open anew and bleed at the sight of utter guilt and self-blame he saw swimming in the dark brown depths of the dwarf's eyes. "Gimli–" he began, but had to break off sharply as he felt his throat tightly constrict, momentarily choking off anything else he might have tried to say for several seconds. Unbidden tears of renewed guilt torn at him and welled up in his already sorrow-ladened eyes. "No, Gimli, it wasn't your fault. I was wrong. None of this was you fault," he protested with fresh tears shining in his eyes, "None of it was..." 

Striding forward, the man swiftly closed the gap between him and the dwarf in two quick steps and pulled his friend up against him in a comforting embrace. A barely audible sob sounded in the back of the dwarf's throat as Gimli immediately returned the gesture, not caring if anyone else saw the rather awkward looking spectacle he and Aragorn were making: a man and dwarf embracing with Gimli's head barely even reaching Aragorn's chest. They just didn't care anymore. There was just too much death, loss, and sorrow between them to care.

Standing in each other's arms, the two friends suddenly felt a great sense of strength and support wash over them. Though no real words were spoken between them, they knew they had been forgiven for everything they had said in that moment of raging helplessness and despair the day before. No longer alienated by ill-spoken words or misplaced anger, the two finally felt as if they had someone else who they could share their grief and pain with for their dear friend who they had both lost and still bitterly mourned for. Finally after several long minutes of silence, as if coming to a mutual understanding, the two friends slowly pulled away from each other and looked into each other's watery eyes. 

Neither said anything. There didn't seem to be a need. They had made their peace with one another. They had resolved their differences. There was just nothing left that needed to be said. 

Offering Gimli a timid smile of thanks and final apology, Aragorn nevertheless began to open his mouth to speak. But whatever he was about to say was never known, for at that very moment a loud trumpet blast echoed out across the field, startling the man and dwarf back into reality.

"They're coming! They're coming!" was the resounding cry that rippled through the ranks as everyone there hurriedly looked out across to the opposite side of the field. Coming up over the first rise of the field rode an impressive company of mounted elves. The sound of their approach was like that of the thunder rumbling on the horizon, heralding the arrival of both a violent storm and war. Banners of green and gold all bearing the stylized design of a leaf entwined with vines angrily snapped in the air above their heads.

Leading this mighty host of riders atop a charging white war horse rode the impressive figure of King Thranduil of Mirkwood dressed in full armor. Angry black thunderclouds of the approaching storm swirled and twisted in the turbulent sky behind him, setting a dramatic backdrop for his approach. The elven king was an awesome and terrifying image to behold.

Thranduil's armor flashed brightly on his body as a sudden flash of lightening streaked across the sky behind him and momentarily illuminated the polished metal. Long blonde hair flowed out over his shoulders and whipped the air behind him. But that was not what suppressed many of the watching Imladris elves into silent awe and reverent fear. It was the king's eyes. Even from across the open field they could see the dangerous flash of his eyes, the smoldering fire and wrath burning deep inside them.

Standing in silence beside each other just on the edge of the forest line, Aragorn and Gimli watched with heavy eyes as Thranduil and his army swept across the field towards them like a terrible wind of death. 

Thranduil had finally come... War was finally upon them – something they had feared since Legolas was first struck down by the evil poison staining the edge of Gimli's gift.

As the man and dwarf watched the elven king begin to slow his approach and then finally reign his prancing white war horse to a stop in the center of the open field with his army behind him, Aragorn slowly raised a hand and silently set it on Gimli's shoulder. This was the end. There was no escaping now. Unless they could still somehow convince Thranduil to relinquish his path of revenge, war would ravage the land and soak the earth with blood. Aragorn softly squeezed Gimli's shoulder, reassuring his friend that he was there to offer him his strength and support in the coming battle and that he was not about to leave him.

Gimli seemed to accept this and silently reached up to cover Aragorn's hand sitting there on his shoulder with his own. As the dwarf gave Aragorn a small nod of gratitude for the man's offered strength, Gimli felt a sudden pang of longing course through his heart. Now more than ever since the elf's death almost a week ago, Gimli wished Legolas was there. 

A fresh wave of guilt crashed over the dwarf. He tightly shut his eyes to try and stem the pain he felt welling up inside him at the thought of his deceased friend. But there was no way for him to ease the pain of his guilt. It was his fault Legolas would never be able to fight beside him in battle again, why they now stood here preparing for war in the first place. Gimli slowly looked up at the turbulent sky and darkened thunderclouds quickly rolling in overhead.

He really wished Legolas could be there with him now to give him strength. Even if only in spirit...

  


******

  
  


"No! It's not true! It can't be! Let me up!"

"Legolas, calm down," Elrond said, desperately trying to calm the struggling elf on the bed, "Legolas, calm down. You're going to hurt yourself."

  


"No! Let me up! I have to stop them!" he cried, weakly trying to pull himself up to sit. His attempts to do so however were quickly stopped by Elrond and Arwen as they both easily pushed him back down onto the bed. "Please! I have to stop them! I have to warn them!" Legolas wailed, weakly tossing his head back and forth over the pillow in helpless frustration of making them listen to him. 

  


Only several minutes ago, after being spirited from the alter room to a nearby guestroom, Legolas had woken for the first time to coherent consciousness. He had found Elrond and Arwen busily tending to him when he woke, hurriedly stripping him of a long formal grey robe he never remembered putting on and then covering his violently shivering body with several warm blankets. For this he was immensely grateful for. His whole body shook with cold that seemed to seep down and freeze the very marrow of his bones. Disoriented and dizzy with exhaustion, Legolas could only wonder in a muddled sort of haze why he was shivering so badly. 

It was only after Elrond helped him drink some strong smelling herbal concoction did Legolas feel anything along the lines of coherent thought return to him. Still extremely weak and disoriented, Legolas nevertheless had had enough sense to know that something was wrong. He struggled to remember why he would be in the need of care like this from the Lord of Imladris, or why the whole left side of his body hurt with a dull, throbbing pain. He vaguely remembered waking up in Elrond's arms in some strange, open room he had never seen before, but everything before that was dark and hazy as if his brain was wreathed in dense fog. 

  


It was only as he laid there in a stupefied daze fighting off the seductive urge to let himself drift off into sleep, did Legolas slowly begin to remember all that had happened. Gimli's gift. The poison. Eronel. The war... Gripped by panic, he had demanded answers from the other two elves. They had at first tried to dissuade his inquires, but it seemed that even after being considered dead for almost a week, Legolas had lost none of his stubbornness. Finally after many demands and weakly backed threats, Legolas had managed to wrestle something of a sketchy account of recent events since his apparent "demise" almost a week before. Horrified and shocked at what Elrond and Arwen reluctantly revealed to him, Legolas now desperately fought to stop everything he feared from coming true. 

  


"Please! I have to warn them! This is what Eronel wants! Don't you see? I have to stop them!" he cried desperately, still trying to disentangle himself from the numerous blankets Elrond and Arwen had thrown over his shivering body. Legolas' body ached with fatigue and hurt from the lingering effects of the poison in his arm that had almost killed him. But he refused to succumb to the pain or his body's wishes for sleep and rest. He had to warn them.

  


"Legolas. Legolas, no. Just calm down and relax," Arwen soothed as he she once again gently pushed Legolas back down onto the bed and pet back some of his disheveled blonde hair from his face. "You're still sick. You need to rest," she said soothingly, lowering her voice to a soft, comforting, maternal purr, "Just lie back and relax. Everything will be alright. Father's already had Glorfindel send a messenger to the defensive line to tell everyone you're still alive. It's alright. Just relax and sleep. You're still extremely sick. Everything will be fine. I promise. Just lie back and rest..."

  


"No! You're not listening to me!" Legolas cried, "Eronel has planned this all out! She wants to see my father declare war on the Dwarves. This is her revenge! I have to warn them! You have to let me warn them!"

  


"Legolas, no," Elrond finally broke in, abruptly hushing any more of Legolas' plaintive cries with his deep, authoritative voice. "You are too sick to do anything of the sort. You're suffering from exposure and dehydration. Plus there is still poison in your system. We may have given you the magic water from Eronel's cave and broken her spell over you, but you are still suffering from some of the effects of the poison. It's not gone yet." As he spoke, Elrond pulled back the blankets from over the left side of Legolas' chest and looked down at the elf's vibrantly discolored torso and arm. Legolas hissed in pain as the ancient healer reached down and gently picked his arm up to examine. Elrond gingerly turned the elf's infected blue arm over in his hands. Dark blue track lines ran up and down the length of Legolas' arm, his veins horribly discolored from the invading toxin of the elven sorceress Eronel. "Your arm is still in pain," Elrond noted grimly, "It will take some time for the water to completely drive Eronel's poison out of your system. You are in no shape to get out of bed. It is lucky you are even alive. You must rest."

  


"No!" Legolas wailed almost deliriously, unable to be dissuaded, "Eronel is planning something. Can't you see that? She won't let this war end without bloodshed. She wants to see Elves and Dwarves destroy each other. She's not going to let this end so easily. I must warn them!"

  


Elrond and Arwen shared uneasy looks. 

  


"Please," Legolas begged in a slightly softer tone, starting up into Elrond's eyes with a deep, unwavering gaze, "I have to go and warn them. She is not going to let this war end so easily..."

  


******

  


To Be Continued...

  


****** 

  


Like it? Hate it? Either way I'd love to hear what you think!

  


So 'till next time!


	14. Truth Revealed

Oh. My. God.

What is this? Can it be?! Is it really? (Gasp!) It is! It's an update!!!

Hi there! Remember me? Yeah, that's right. Your incorrigible "Touch of Sight" writer has finally decided to return to her first LOTR fanfic. It took me a while to get back to this after a long hiatus, but I finally did. Thanks to everyone that read and reviewed and kept e-mailing me with pleas for a new chapter and threats to get another update out. Your encouragement and support have been wonderful. Thanks so much to all my readers. Anyway, hope I didn't keep any of you waiting too too long for this and that you like the new installment. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all associated characters belong to JRR Tolkien and are not mine, nor are they being used for profit in the telling of this story. If you want to go and try to sue me for copyright infringements, go ahead. But I'm warning you right now, you're not going to get much!

............

Thranduil sat stiff and proud atop his great white charger as he watched the approaching group of riders gallop out across the field to meet him. To any, he would have appeared the living example of stoic calm and poise. But inside, a fire raged. The deep, burning anger and hatred he felt smoldering in his heart now for the past five days suddenly seemed to come flaring to life as he watched the approaching delegates from the Imladris forces. His ancient grey eyes were like two pieces of burning coal as he watched them draw nearer, their banners of blue and white snapping in the air above them over their shoulders as they sped out across the field toward him.

It was an ancient tradition that before battles such a this, delegates from either side would meet in the center of the battlefield to negotiate any possible last minute surrenders or compromises between the two forces. But Thranduil had already made up his mind that there would be no such negotiations or compromises made today. Not unless it was for them to hand over the murderous little dwarf that killed his son. He was not going to call off this battle until he saw that dwarf's blood staining the edge of his sword.

The Imladris group was nearing. With a soft nudge of his heels, Thranduil urged his horse forward to meet the coming group of riders several hundred yards out in the middle of the field. Riding out with him followed the Elvenking's nephew, Toreingal, and two of his field commanders, Celion and Eredil.

Flanking the king's right side, Toreingal dispassionately stared out ahead of him towards the group of approaching Noldorian elves. No light or life seemed to shine in his once bright and fiery eyes as he watched them near. All that remained of the once proud and arrogant elf was nothing more than a hollow shell of grief and pain; his cousin's death still weighing heavily on both his body and soul. His skin seemed dulled of its natural elven glow. Even his long, once silken golden hair seemed lackluster and dull as it limply spilled over his shoulders and hung down the length of his back.

Though he said nothing and obediently followed his uncle out into the middle of the field to meet the approaching riders, Toreingal felt strangely numb and disconnected to the world around him. Like he was watching his life play out through the eyes of someone else.

Though he could not say when the actual change had occurred, he no longer had any desire to be there. For he had long ago lost his taste for revenge and retribution on those that resided in the land in which his cousin had met his end. Since returning to Rivendell from his journey to the elven sorceress' cave to find Legolas already dead, Toreingal had long since given up seeking revenge for his cousin's death.

Somehow this war felt wrong to him now. Where once he would have demanded blood in retribution for his cousin's death, such revenge now seemed empty and nothing more than a cruel act of disrespect to his cousin's dearly departed soul. Though grief still hung heavy on his aching soul, he knew Legolas would not have wanted this. He would not have wanted his death to lead to such senseless hatred and violence. He wouldn't have wanted his father to start a war like this and spill innocent blood in his name. That was not what Legolas had stood for in his life and what Toreingal knew he wouldn't have wanted to stand for in his death.

But while Toreingal knew his cousin wouldn't have wanted this war to be the marker of his passing, he doubted that knowledge would ever stem Thranduil's wrath from seeking blood that day. There was something vengeful burning in his uncle's eyes he had never seen before. Something in Thranduil's eyes that both scared and frightened Toreingal with the unspoken promise of bloodshed to anyone that came to stand between his uncle and the one he blamed for his son's death.

Toreingal slowly glanced up out of the corner of his eye to emptily stare at his uncle's terrible and frightening profile. All he wanted to do was go back home to Mirkwood and properly mourn his cousin's death. But somehow he knew that was probably all but impossible now. Thranduil would never relinquish his path of war. Not now. Not when the dwarf he blamed his son's death on stood so close now within his grasp.

Thranduil suddenly pulled back his mount, effectively stopping his nephew and two commanders beside him also. The Imladris riders were now nearing the middle of the field where they already stood waiting. As they rode closer, the four Mirkwood elves finally saw who had come to try and negotiate any possible last minute concessions of peace with them.

Leading the small group rode the twin sons of Elrond, their long dark hair streaming out over their shoulders and playing in the growing headwind of the brewing storm that was quickly sweeping in over their heads from the east. Behind them rode their mortal foster brother, Aragorn, and beside him the wizard, Gandalf, astride his great white stallion, Shadowfax. There was no sign of the dwarf Gimli; he had been left at the Imladris defensive line while the others had gone to try and reason with Thranduil and negotiate last minute peace. All wore grim expressions as they drew close and slowly pulled their mounts back to a stop about a yard from the Elvenking and his entourage.

Taking lead of matters, Elladan was the first to speak. "Lord Thranduil, we are here to negotiate for the cessation of hostility against Imladris–"

"There is nothing here to negotiate!" Thranduil spat, quickly cutting off the oldest heir of said elven realm, "I have already made my demands clear. I will not cease hostilities against this land until you hand over the murderous little dwarf that killed my son!"

"Thranduil, please," Elrohir pleaded from his brother's side, "Gimli had nothing to do with Legolas' death. What happened was an accident. It wasn't his fault. He was even one of the ones that went to try and find a cure for him!"

"And yet he did not return in time to save my son! Just like he is not here to face me now for his crimes," Thranduil noted acidly with unrepressed anger dripping off every word. "He poisoned my son! And you want me to just forget about it as though nothing happened at all?!" the Elvenking exclaimed. "No. I will not forget what that dwarf did. He murdered my son! I will see justice done for the crimes he's committed!"

"Thranduil, your son's death is tragic and regrettable," Gandalf finally took that moment to speak up, his voice flowing in slow, calming words meant to try and stem the growing tension in the air between the two groups, "But it is not right to pay blood for blood like this. As Elrohir said, Gimli is not responsible for Legolas' death. It was only ill-fate and misfortune that led to your son's passing. This war you are waging in attempt to place blame on one individual for such a tragic loss is unjustified. This is not justice. This is Kinslaying!"

Thranduil seemed to literally bristle around the edges at this declaration, his eyes narrowing to two dangerous slits of undeniable hatred and contempt. "Unjustified?" he hissed, "Perhaps you are right for once, wizard, for nothing can justify the loss of a child. But if this is the way I must go about avenging my son's murder, then that is what I will do! If that dwarf is not to be held responsible for Legolas' death then who is? Who?!" the Elvenking demanded, raking his fiery blue eyes across the four representatives from Imladris as if daring them to actually answer him. "That dwarf stole my son from me! I want his head for what he's done!" Thranduil then screamed, his voice beginning to take on a slightly hysterical quality to it as if all the pent up grief and pain he had held inside himself since first hearing of his son's death was finally starting to boil over past his defenses and iron will to keep them hidden and contained. "Hand him over! You have no right to harbor such a murderer in you lands and grant him sanctuary from punishment! He must pay for what he's done!"

"I am sorry, Thranduil, but I cannot allow such a thing," Gandalf said, his voice strong and even as he undauntedly held the king's fiery gaze with his own, "Gimli is innocent of these crimes you charge him with. And thus, we will protect him."

"Then once again I proclaim war on the elven realm of Imladris for harboring the known murderer of my son, Legolas Greenleaf, prince of Mirkwood!" Thranduil bellowed, his loud, commanding voice carrying far and wide out through the damp and heavy air to either side of the large, grassy field where both armies stood anxiously watching, waiting to see what last minute peace might yet still be negotiated between the two warring realms. But at Thranduil's renewed declaration of war, hope seemed to all but dwindle away to nothing.

"Legolas wouldn't have wanted this!" Aragorn desperately shouted, drawing the Elvenking's attention to him next, "You are doing your son's memory a disfavor! He would have never wanted his death to lead to such hatred or violence."

"My son also didn't want to die," Thranduil bitterly retorted, his sapphire gaze boring into Elrond's mortal foster son as if somehow also blaming him for his son's death, "But he is not here anymore to say what he wants or not. So it is up to me now to see how best to avenge his murder."

At this, hope of Thranduil peacefully reconciling with the elven realm of Imladris finally did disappear. For it seemed nothing short of dwarven blood staining the edge of Thranduil's blade would stem the grieving father's wrath.

"Thranduil, you are being a fool!" Gandalf cried in waning patience for the king's unrelenting quest for revenge, "This war will not bring your son back!"

"No," Thranduil relented with a flash of pained regret in his eyes before it was quickly swallowed behind his shield of anger again, "But at least I can have the satisfaction of knowing that after I pierce that dwarf's heart through with my own sword today that he will finally know in his last few moments of life what pain I have suffered and will feel for the rest of my life."

Thranduil paused then and seemed to try and collect himself, his slightly heaving chest the only indicator as to the inner turmoil of emotions that swirled around inside him like a raging storm just beneath his slowly crumbling facade of outer calm.

"You had best go prepare your troops," he then acidly suggested, lifting his chin in the general direction of the Imladris army of elves where they stood positioned just beneath the outer boughs of the field's surrounding forest, "For we will show no mercy to those that stand in the way of justice..." At this, Thranduil then sharply wheeled his mount around and began to move back in the direction of his army's line, his nephew and two field commanders close behind him.

But he did not get far. For at that moment there came an excited murmur of shouts and indiscernible cries of exclamation ripple though the ranks of stationed elves on the Imladris side of the field. Pausing, Thranduil slowly pulled his mount back to a stop and looked back over his shoulder in the direction of the stir, as did everybody else there For a moment, no one could discern what the cause of the sudden commotion was until those watching from the middle of the field saw a small section of warriors in the front line quickly part as if to make way for something before a streak of white and gold suddenly shot out from their ranks and sped out into the open field.

A collective gasp went up on either side of the field as the outline of a golden haired rider sitting astride a powerful white warhorse came into view as he shot like a loosened arrow out across the field in the direction of the small group standing together between the two opposing armies.

"Glorfindel!" Aragorn was the first to find his voice and shout in shocked disbelief at the ancient Balrog slayer's sudden appearance as the golden haired elf sped towards them.

"Stop!" Glorfindel began to frantically shout and wave as he finally came within range of the small group of leaders in the middle of the field. "Stop! Don't fight! He isn't dead! Legolas isn't dead! Don't fight!"

"What are you saying?" Gandalf demanded as the elf finally pulled a charging Asfaloth back to an abrupt and sudden stop only several feet from the amassed group of riders.

"Legolas!" Glorfindel repeated desperately, his bright blue eyes shining with some emotion no one there could quite accurately describe or name– perhaps some kind of mix between panic, disbelief, joy, and lingering shock? "He's still alive!" the ancient warrior cried again in growing distress, "Elrond just sent me to tell you he's not dead! He's still alive!"

An excited murmur of gasps and exclamations of disbelief ran through those listening.

"What do you mean Legolas isn't dead?" Thranduil incredulously demanded, sharply wheeling his horse back around to face the golden haired warrior.

"That he's still alive!" Glorfindel exclaimed in mounting frustration and desperation to make himself understood, "The Lady Arwen went to visit Legolas' body earlier this morning and found that the poison we believed to have killed him was still spreading. Elrond gave him a drought of the magical water Gandalf, Gimli, and Toreingal retrieved from Eronel's cave, and broke Legolas from some spell cast over him to make us all believe he had actually been dead! He is still alive!"

"Are you sure of this?" Gandalf demanded.

"Yes! I was there when he woke!" Glorfindel cried, "I heard him speak! I heard him call for Gimli! He is still alive I tell you! You must stop this fighting! He is not dead!" he pleaded, desperately raking his eyes across the group of stunned faces staring back at him in varying degrees of shocked disbelief.

For a moment, no one said anything, everyone there too stunned or skeptical to believe such a miracle like the one Glorfindel attested to having witnessed could have actually occurred. But the disbelief of such a thing possibly being true was quickly overrun by a soft, tentative flicker of fledgling hope.

"My son is still alive?" Thranduil softly asked in a somewhat hesitant tone, as if afraid of Glorfindel suddenly revealing this startling bit of news to be nothing more than some sort of cruel joke.

"Yes, Thranduil, he is," Glorfindel once again confirmed, holding the king's uncertain, questioning gaze with his own, "He is being tended to right now by Elrond and Arwen. He is weak and disoriented, but he is alive."

"I want to be taken to him. Now," Thranduil quickly said, his order a mixture of commanding royal authority and pleading parental distress. "I want to see my son..."

"Of course," Glorfindel nodded with no small sigh of relief at the king's acceptance to at least momentarily cease open warfare against Imladris and go to his resurrected son's side. But as the golden haired Balrog slayer was about to turn Asfaloth back in the direction of the Last Homely House with Thranduil close behind, both elves were suddenly stopped by a loud and ringing voice call out from behind them.

"It's a lie!"

Both elves and everyone else there stopped and looked back over their shoulders to see Thranduil's female commander urge her horse forward several steps into the center of the group. "It's not true!" she yelled, her face twisted with rage, "It's a lie! There is no way he can be alive!"

"Celion!" Thranduil exclaimed, surprised at his usually quiet and reserved field commander's sudden outburst. "What are you– "

"It is a trick!" she once again vehemently declared, cutting Thranduil off sharply, "There is no way Legolas can be alive! He is dead!" Here she cast her fiery gaze on Toreingal who sat dumbly staring at Glorfindel and Thranduil as if still in shock at the possibility of his cousin still being alive. "Ask him!" Celion then cried, thrusting an accusing finger at the Elvenking's nephew, "He was there and saw the prince's body. He can testify that when he returned to Rivendell with the dwarf and wizard Legolas was already dead! There is no way what this elf here says happened can be true! Nothing can bring a person back from the dead!"

Thranduil paused and seemed to consider this for a moment. Though an almost frantic, desperate hope now burned in his chest that his son might still yet be alive, there was no denying what his commander said. "Toreingal?" he questioned softly.

The elven warrior's eyes darted wildly between his uncle, Glorfindel, and Celion, as if torn and confused by what to say or believe. "I saw him, uncle..." he finally said, his voice trembling with unknown emotions, "When we returned to Rivendell I saw Legolas' body laid out upon an alter as if he were dead. And he lay there so still and lifeless for the last five days, I had no doubt in my mind he was dead," Toreingal softly admitted, but then desperately hurried on to say, "But I never actually touched him or examined him myself, and only believed Lord Elrond's word as a master healer that he was dead! So if there is any possibility that he is still ali–"

"You see!" Celion exclaimed, sharply cutting off the younger elf's speech before he could say anything else, "This is nothing but an elaborate trick concocted by Elrond to try and fool you into lowering your guard and walking into a trap! He is trying to play you for a fool by telling you your son is still alive and that he somehow miraculously cured him! It is nothing but a lie as your nephew just confirmed himself!" she said, pointing a finger back at Toreingal again.

Toreingal began to open his mouth as if to protest, but was quickly intercepted by Glorfindel. "Toreingal cannot confirm such a thing because we were all under the same belief that Legolas was dead! It wasn't until this morning when Arwen saw the poison still spreading that we began to suspect that he might still be alive. And he is! He was never dead in the first place! We were all fooled because he was bewitched to make it seem as if he were dead. But he is alive I tell you, Thranduil! I do not lie!" the ancient Balrog slayer desperately shouted, staring deeply into the Elvenking's torn and confused eyes. Thranduil suddenly felt as if he were caught in the middle of a verbal tug of war and he was the rope.

"Do not believe him! He is lying!" the warrioress shouted next at Thranduil, "Elrond knows he cannot defend the city if we make an all out attack on him, and hopes to trick you into abandoning the attack just long enough for him to escape or to try and attack you unprepared when you go to investigate this claim that your son is still alive! You should attack now and make Elrond pay for this weak attempt at trying to play you for a fool! Do not forget that it was also that dwarf that poisoned your son in the first place. It is because of him that your son now lays dead! Attack them and make them pay! Do it now!" she shrieked, "Attack!"

At this, it was like sudden warning bells going off in Thranduil's head, his inner voice screaming caution. His suspicions raised and his ire slightly pricked at being spoken to in such a disrespectful manner by a subordinate, the Elvenking narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his antagonistic field commander. "I was not aware that I now took orders from my subjects," he said, staring down at the female warrior. "What is wrong with you, Celion?" he then demanded, staring hard into her fiery blue eyes which he could no longer recognize as those belonging to the one he had entrusted to lead his warriors for the past two millennia, "I have always known you to be an elf that strived for peace. Why do you now campaign for war so vehemently?"

The she-elf's face froze, as if suddenly realizing her error. "I am sorry, my Lord," she quickly covered, her voice now suspiciously soft and demur as she bowed her head low to the Elvenking as if her previous display of antagonistic warmongering had never even occurred. "I apologize for my outburst. But I stand by what I said. No matter what your son's current state of being is, you cannot overlook the fact he was intentionally poisoned by that dwarf and is being protected by the elven realm of Imladris from justice. Just because they say Legolas might be alive does not mean that–"

But Celion never got any father than that.

For at that precise moment, the low, but unmistakable twang of a bowstring being released sounded through the chilly, damp air. Barely even half a second later before the sound could actual register in the brains of those gathered there in the middle of the field, the female elf screamed out in pain and limply slid from the back of her horse to the ground, the long brown shaft of an elven made arrow protruding from her back in the center of her right shoulder blade.

All those gathered around the female elf instinctively jumped back and looked in the direction of the arrow's origin. But who they saw standing there on the edge of the wide, grassy field just beneath the overhanging boughs of the surrounding forest astride a powerful white warhorse was no one any of them had ever expected to see as the owner of the deadly projectile.

Thunder crashed loudly in the sky overhead, the wind beginning to pick up and whip the air in growing agitation as thick, black storm clouds began to sweep in overhead like a blanket of darkness. A bolt of lightening streaked across the sky, momentarily illuminating a long, flowing mane of bright golden hair and familiar features of a pale, deadly face. Fiery sapphire blue eyes stared down the length of another notched arrow already drawn back for release on the archer's mighty silver bow.

All those standing in the middle of the field stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend the possibility of the one they saw standing there before them as being anything other than a cruel trick of their still grieving minds. For the one they saw before them with his deadly bow pulled back and trained on the small group of riders was dead. And yet, even as they stared in open disbelief at the ghost of their painful memories, there was no denying the identity of the one they saw.

It was Legolas Greenleaf.

"I will not let you manipulate and fool my friends and family anymore, Eronel!" he shouted loudly over the growing howl of wind sweeping in across the field from the approaching storm, "Gimli and I will not play the role of your pawns anymore! I will not let you use those dear to me to harm each other or anyone else! This ends now!"

At first, no one standing there staring in utter shock could understand what Legolas was talking about or why he had shot Thranduil's field commander so unprovoked like he had. But before any of them could inquired about Legolas' actions or why he seemed to think the elven sorceress Eronel was there in their midst, a low, poisonous voice spoke.

"You are very astute, little prince... Annoyingly so..."

Wheeling around in their saddles, Thranduil, Elladan and Elrohir, Aragorn, Gandalf, and the Elvenking's other field commander all turned to see Celion slowly pick herself up off the ground from where she had fallen when struck by Legolas' arrow, and stand to face the elven prince who stood still staring down the length of the notched arrow of his bow that was expertly trained at the she-elf's heart several hundred feet away across the wide, grassy field.

"I thought I was finally rid of you," she hissed, glaring dangerously at the warrior prince. Without even a cursory glance behind her, Celion reached up over her shoulder to grasp the shaft of the arrow protruding from her back and angrily snapped it in half near the base of where it disappeared into her skin, her face never once flinching in pain or her eyes leaving those of Legolas. "I thought you would have passed into Mandos' Halls at least by now," she said, carelessly tossing the broken shaft in her hand to the ground, "But it looks like I'm going to have to squash you once and for all just like the annoying little pest you are. You have foiled my plans for the last time!"

"Show yourself, Eronel, in your true form!" Legolas demanded, his second arrow never wavering from that of the she-elf's chest, "I do not want to fight you while you still wear the form of one of my father's people. Show yourself, witch!"

"As you wish, princeling..." Celion hissed.

As the other's standing there in the middle of the field watched in silent horror, they saw the edges of the field commander's form suddenly begin to waver and glow as if they were looking at a watery mirage. And then, with no other warning, a bright flash of light flared around the female elf. Those standing around her instinctively shielded their eyes from the flash. But when the slowly turned their eyes back onto the scene, what they beheld made many of them gasp in horror.

Celion's body now lay crumpled in a heap on the ground, the broken off arrow wound in her back now bleeding profusely and staining her back and ground beneath her in a growing puddle of vibrant crimson. But that was not what made all those gathered there gasp and rear back in revulsion. For there standing over Thranduil's injured field commander's body stood the horrible, emaciated form of a tall female elf. Long, tangled strands of dirty blonde fell down her skeletal back to the backs of her knees. The torn, ragged remains of a dirty, old fashioned robe hung from her bony body and pooled around the ground at her feet. But the haggard, frightening image of the emaciated elven woman was nothing in comparison to the fiery intensity of the she-elf's piercing blue eyes.

A low, wicked chuckle came from the horrid creature now standing in their midst at the horrified, revolted faces of those staring back at her in shock.

"Are you happy now, little prince?" she called out tauntingly to Legolas across the grassy field, "Because here I am..."

And it was then that those standing there finally realized that the one they stared at and who Legolas had actually released his arrow at before was none other than the elven sorceress Eronel. The one who they thought had killed Legolas with her vile poison, and who Gimli had released from her cave in a vain attempt to save his best friends life...

............

To Be Continued...

............

Like it? Hate it? Has if been too long to really remember what the heck is going on? Yeah, I kind of had to read back a bit myself to get back into the "Writings on the Sword" mind set to write this latest chapter. Anyway, please tell me what you think. I accept and appreciate any and all forms of response and constructive criticism.

I'm going to try and get another chapter of "They Came Upon a Midnight Clear" next. Don't worry though. I plan on getting another chapter of "Writings" out soon. Thanks for reading and don't forget that review!

Till next time!


	15. The Cost of Sacrifice

Hi everyone! Just wanted to say thanks to everyone that read and reviewed last chapter. Sorry it took so long, but here it finally is, chapter 15! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all associated characters are not mine. Don't sue.

o/o/o/o/

Gimli stood frozen in disbelief. No matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to make his mind comprehend the unbelievable scene his eyes beheld. Just like everyone else there watching from the sideline of the immense field, he had been startled when Glorfindel first suddenly burst from the surrounding stand of trees and raced towards the group of Imladris and Mirkwood delegates, all the while frantically shouting something Gimli could not quite discern; and then even more surprised when the female warrior in Thranduil's company was suddenly struck down by an arrow.

But even more startling than Glorfindel's appearance or the sudden attack was the sight of the one who had fired the deadly projectile.

At first, Gimli thought he was hallucinating, that grief had finally robbed him of his last remaining bit of sanity. But no. No! He wasn't the only one staring in disbelief at the golden haired apparition sitting astride a great white war horse on the other side of the field, staring down the length of another notched arrow. No! There was no denying the identity of the one he saw, or the name hovering just on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill from his mouth in an exclamation of pure, unbridled disbelief and shock.

It was Legolas. His dearest friend and companion. His fellow warrior and comrade in arms. His confidant. His trusted ally. His blood brother...

For a moment Gimli thought he would faint from shock at the sudden appearance of the long thought dead elf. But then Legolas began to speak, his voice carrying loud and strong across the field over the growing headwind of the violent storm sweeping in overhead, and Gimli was finally brought out of his trance. Still feeling rather dazed as if he were caught in some sort of dream, the dwarf forced his still disbelieving eyes to look in the direction his friend still sat expertly aiming an arrow down into the small group of delegates huddled together in the middle of the field.

At first Gimli could not understand what was going on as the scene before him finally began to register in his frozen mind. Legolas had just shot down one of Thranduil's guards! And he now sat staring down the length of another arrow aimed at his father, friends, and kin! What had gotten into the elf?!

But then a voice rose up over the wind to answer the resurrected prince. A voice low and poisonous that Gimli instantly recognized and sent a cold chill running down the length of his spine.

Gimli stared in silent horror as he watched Thranduil's warrioress slowly pick herself up off the ground and turn to face Legolas, the feathered end of the prince's arrow still protruding from her back. A small exchange of shouted words took place between the two, but Gimli was unable to understand what was being said as a great gust of wind suddenly swept in through the field from the violent storm now breaking loose overhead. And then, with no other warning to those watching from the side of the field, a great flash of light suddenly exploded from around the female elf, her form momentarily disappearing from view behind the blinding burst of white.

As the light slowly faded away, leaving bright patches of white still glowing in the retinas of those watching, gasps of horror instantly went up around the field at the sight of the horrid looking being now standing over the body of Thranduil's commander laying motionless at her feet. Gimli felt his blood pressure quicken and his stomach clench with a violent surge of hatred unlike anything he had ever felt before at the sight of the one he saw.

_Eronel..._

The name echoed like a foul curse through the dwarf's head. He could feel his fists involuntarily clutch the handle of his mighty war axe tighter.

_That witch... _he mentally cursed, his hands now almost painfully gripping his weapon. _She is the one behind all this. She is why we have all suffered so much this last long, horrible week, and why Legolas is now dead... _But as soon as the thought crossed the dwarf's emotion-clouded mind he was instantly reminded of the golden haired elf standing no more than a hundred yards from where he stood.

Again Gimli was forced to try and comprehend the presence of the resurrected prince standing – living and breathing! – before his very eyes. The shock of such an inconceivable miracle seemed to want to try and crush him into the ground in its assault on his still confused and grief-wearied mind. No matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to make his mind truly comprehend the unbelievable sight he saw.

Legolas and Eronel were once again shouting at one another across the field. And once again Gimli was unable to hear them over the loud rolls of thunder crashing overhead. Everyone around the two seemed frozen, staring in wonder and shock at the resurrected prince and the emaciated elven sorceress. Even those standing in the middle of the field – elvenlords, princes, wizards, and warriors – all seemed turned to stone by the appearance of their long thought of dead friend, cousin, and son. None seemed able to move or think, let alone jump up to join the blonde archer in his stand against the evil elven sorceress.

It was then that Gimli suddenly truly saw the golden haired being before him, and felt a cold surge of dread wash over him like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. With his initial shock over the elf's appearance finally beginning to pass, he was finally able to take inventory of several things he had been too startled to notice before.

For one thing, it was becoming increasingly clear that Legolas was not as well as Gimli (and he was sure everyone else there) had originally thought. Over the years he had become highly adept at reading the elf's subtle body language and being able to tell what condition his friend was in. And what he saw displayed before him filled him with a sense of undeniable dread.

As he stood watching Legolas stare down the length of another arrow aimed at the sorceress' chest, he was able to discern even from a distance the shaking of the elven prince's arms. Though he was obviously fighting to keep his bow straight and still, Gimli could see Legolas' entire upper body shaking with the effort it took him to keep his bow aloft and his arrow pulled back at the wretched looking witch. His legs clutched the sides of the horse he rode almost desperately, struggling to stay balanced atop the animal's back. Gimli could see Legolas' eyebrows knitted together in the center of his ashy-pale face and tiny wrinkles creasing the elven prince's forehead – all things which practically screamed at him of the immense pain and exhaustion the elf must be in to have it actually showing on his face.

Gimli felt his heart gripped by urgency and dread. Legolas would not be able to fight in this condition. He had no idea what miracle had transpired to have allowed the elven prince to be standing in front of him alive and breathing after almost a week of being believed dead, but whatever it was Gimli knew it was not going to be enough for Legolas to win this fight. He was going to need help.

A loud explosion suddenly sounded from the other side of the field, spurring Gimli into action. With no second thought to himself or anything else around him, the dwarf took off at a sprint, running full tilt with all the reputed speed of his race for the huddled group of figures in the middle of the field, and his resurrected friend. He was not going to let Eronel take his friend away from him again...

o/o/o/o/o

Legolas stared down the length of his arrow, struggling to keep his arms from shaking. His whole body felt sick with exhaustion and pain. What once had only been a dull, throbbing pain in his arm when he first woke had since morphed back into the hot, searing pain he remembered before Eronel's dark, death-like sleep first swept over him and claimed him as its own. His whole left arm felt like it had been dipped into a vat of burning acid. Pain like liquid fire raced up and down every inch of his arm, leeching away his strength and zapping his energy.

But he refused to let his weakness passively show or the pain dampen his resolve. Not here. Not now. Not when the one who had caused him, his family, and friends so much pain and suffering stood right before him. He was going to make Eronel pay. He was not going to let anyone else be hurt because of her. She had caused enough pain already. No matter what it took, he was going to stop her...

Eronel, however, did not seem at all intimidated by the sharp elven arrow aimed directly at her heart, or by the intense fire she saw burning in the elven prince's eyes. No, in fact, she looked rather cocky and self-assured, though a dark, contemptuous scowl still darkened her face from the prince's untimely and unexpected arrival there at the battlefield. For though Legolas tried to put on a strong act for her and everyone else there, the elven sorceress was able to easily see through his ruse to the truth of the matter.

"I see even against all odds you are still too stubborn – or perhaps too foolish – to just admit defeat," Eronel called out to Legolas over the long rolls of thunder crashing overhead. A great gale of wind whipped across the field, sending the witch's long dirty tresses flying up into the air around her. For a moment they seemed to take on a life of their own, as if they had suddenly been transformed into a batch of hissing, spitting vipers swaying to the rhythm of some silent, deadly tune. "You should have died days ago," she yelled at him with unbridled fury smoldering in her eyes, "Why couldn't you have just died like you were suppose to? What fool's hope of a chance do you hope to achieve by trying to stop me now?"

"I've often been accused of being obnoxiously stubborn..." Legolas called back to her over the growing headwind, his eyes never wavering from his target point on the elven sorceress' chest, "But when it comes to someone trying to intentionally harm my family or friends I tend to become downright determined in seeing that person meet a very unpleasant end..."

Eronel narrowed her eyes dangerously at the elven prince. Though his barely veiled threat left little doubt in the minds of those that heard it as to what he planned to do to the evil elven sorceress, Eronel still seemed strangely unperturbed. She cooly held Legolas' gaze, her eyes never leaving those of the archer's squinting down the length of another arrow.

"Even if you have managed to thwart my attempts at initiating war between Elves and Dwarves as my ultimate act of revenge, little prince, you still have no hope of defeating me and living to see another day yourself," she said, her voice low and venomous. She stared long and hard into the prince's crystal blue eyes, as if trying to look down into the elf's very soul.

"Yes... you know of what I speak," she said, reading the deep pain and exhaustion she knew the warrior desperately fought to hide behind a cold mask of vengeance, "You can feel it... Your life still steadily seeps from your body even as we speak..." The dark witch gave a low, mirthless chuckle at the slight narrowing of the prince's eyes that let her know he did in fact know what she was talking about.

"That healer Elrond may have used the enchanted water to break you out from under my spell, but he has not cured you of my poison," she chuckled darkly, "I can feel its toxin still flowing through your veins just as I know you can too. The water may have given you a temporary burst of strength to actually come here and face me with, but you can feel its magic already beginning to leave your. I can feel your strength slowly fading from your body, your soul crying out for release from this suffering you still chose to endure. Your friends may think they have cured you, but you know it is not true. You know you are still going to die..."

Thunder crashed loudly overhead as if in emphasis of the inevitable doom proclaimed by the evil elven sorceress. Wind whipped across the grassy field as lightening streaked across the darkened sky in great, multi-pronged forks of white. Rain began to fall in driving sheets.

But still the elven prince's bow did not waver from its target of the witch's black, beating heart.

"It doesn't matter what happens to me anymore, Eronel," Legolas called out to her across the rain-pelted field, "No matter what, your evil ends here today. I will not let you harm anyone else because of your own wickedness and hatred. I will defeat you. Even if it the last thing I do..."

Eronel's horrid face twisted up into a sneering, contemptuous snarl. "Oh, believe me, little prince, it will be... Make no mistake about that..." Then throwing her arms out to either side of her as if in invitation for Legolas to strike, she cried, "Well come then, little prince! Come and try to stop me! Just know that before the end, you will wish you had died from my poison after all..."

Righteous anger burning in his sapphire blue eyes, Legolas finally released the arrow he had been holding pulled back on his bow now for the last several minutes with a loud, resounding twang. Like a blurry streak, the arrow shot through the air with deadly accuracy directly for the elven sorceress' heart. But before it could come within the last several feet of her, Eronel batted the offending weapon aside with a powerful blast of magic from her hand. Snapped in two, the arrow fell uselessly to the ground beside her.

Kicking his horse into a full gallop, Legolas charged down into the field, firing off several more arrows at Eronel as he bore down her. Eronel effortlessly battled these aside also as if she were doing nothing more than swatting away a swarm of pesky flies. Deflecting another one of Legolas' arrows, the witch then pulled her hand back and hurled a ball of brilliant white energy at the elven prince.

Taken by surprise by the speed of the unexpected attack, Legolas quickly swerved his horse to the side, just narrowly managing to escape the witch's attack as it hit the ground and exploded only several feet away from him. But he did not stop or slow his charge in the slightest, and pushed his horse even faster.

Snarling at the prince's determined efforts, Eronel threw several more attacks of energy at him as he continued to advance on her across the open field. The elf expertly dodged and maneuvered his horse through the witch's continuous onslaught of exploding attacks most of the way into the field, but as he neared the last hundred feet or so, Eronel finally managed to land an attack almost directly in front of Legolas' horse.

Rearing back in fright, the stallion Legolas rode let out a loud squeal of terror and abruptly wheeled away from the impacted area of scorched earth left in the wake of Eronel's attack. Too weak to hold on or react fast enough, Legolas was thrown off the moving animal's back and hit the ground hard in a tumbling roll several dozen yards from the elven sorceress.

"Legolas!" Thranduil cried out in horror as he watched his youngest son tumble through the air like a limp rag doll in seemingly slow motion before colliding with the hard earthen ground. Answering gasps of horror went up from those standing in the middle of the field beside him. Frantically looking over at his remaining commander Thranduil screamed, "Eredil! Get Celion to safety and healer! Now!"

Wasting no time, the Mirkwood elf quickly followed his lord's command and leapt down from his horse's back to collect the bleeding female warrior off the ground. Cradling Celion's limp form in his arms, he leapt back up onto his horse and without even a cursory glance back at his liege or the others there beside him, took off at a galloping run for the Mirkwood lines.

His injured commander now taken care of and removed from the heat of battle, Thranduil once more turned his attention to his fallen son. In one fluid motion he retched his sword from its sheath. "Legolas!" he called out loudly over the sound of thundering rain, "Hold on, my son! I am coming!" Kicking his horse into motion, the Elvenking made a charge for Eronel standing only several dozen feet away.

As if finally startled awake out of a deep trance by Thranduil's frantic charge and the sight of Legolas' fall, the others there – Aragorn, Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir, the king's nephew Toreingal, and Gandalf – all spurred their horses into a full gallop after the Elvenking with swords raised and ready, desperate to reach their fallen friend and protect him from the evil elven sorceress slowly advancing on his still body.

Looking over her shoulder with a annoyed scowl of disdain, Eronel, paused in her advance on the fallen prince and turned to face the charging company of riders. "Stay away! He is _mine_!!" she shrieked, raising her hand back in a sweeping gesture and summoning a large wall of powerful, swirling wind at the approaching group of warriors.

Before those charging her could react in time, they were sent flying backwards by the blow, their horses neighing loudly in fright and rearing back on their hind legs as several of their riders were sent crashing to the ground much like Legolas had. Thranduil was one of them. Scrambling to his feet, the Elvenking desperately looked in the direction of his downed son still laying face down on the ground.

"Legolas!" he cried, reaching down and collecting his sword where it had been knocked from his hand sometime during his fall from the witch's attack. He once more tried to advance on the elven sorceress, but Eronel would have none of it.

"I am warning you, king, _stay away_! This battle is between me and the elfling!" Reaching back, the witch sent another ball of glowing magical energy hurling at the desperate father. The attack hit Thranduil square in the chest and sent him flying backwards off his feet onto his back.

"Uncle!" Toreingal cried, immediately rushing to Thranduil's side. He was followed close by Gandalf, Aragorn, Glorfindel, and the twins. Together with the help of the white wizard, the younger elf helped ease his dazed uncle up off the ground into a sitting position against his chest. "Uncle? Uncle, can you hear me?" he called, desperately shaking Thranduil's shoulder. The front of Thranduil's chest armor was now nothing more than a blackened mass of scorched mental.

A pained groan issued from the Elvenking as he dazedly blinked his eyes open and into focus. "Legolas..." he weakly whispered, ignoring his nephew's calls and staring off in his son's direction.

"We can't get to him. Eronel won't let us I'm afraid," Gandalf said, reading the desperate look shining in the Elvenking's eyes.

"No... I have to get to him... I have to protect my son," Thranduil said, stubbornly trying to pull himself up onto his feet. But before he could even roll to his side and drag himself up onto his knees, the Elvenking fell back against his nephew's chest, still too dazed and weak from the elven sorceress' attack.

"No. You must not move. You're hurt," Aragorn said, quickly kneeling down beside the elf and placing a restraining hand on the Elvenking's shoulder. Thranduil at first tried to fight against the man's attempts to hold him down but soon had to relinquish his fight, too weak to continue.

"No... my son..." Thranduil once more tried to plead, desperately looking off in Legolas' direction. But even as he struggled one last time to rise and go to his son's aide, he collapsed back down into his nephew's arms, even then knowing he was unable to do anything for his youngest child.

Bound together in their helplessness of doing anything for the resurrected elf, the small group of united enemies stared in Legolas' direction, all silently praying for some kind of miracle...

o/o/o/

The first thing Legolas became aware of as the initial numbness and shock of his fall began to subside was the fiery pain and exhaustion racking his weak and battered body. He felt like he had just survived being passed through a meat grinder and tossed to a pack of rabid wargs. Every inch of his body hurt. At that moment nothing sounded so tempting or sweet than to just let darkness steal over him and drift away into peaceful black oblivion. He felt like he could sleep for a thousand years, then nap for a thousand more and still not be rid of the incessant, all consuming exhaustion that plagued his poor, debilitated body. Pain raced up and down every fiber and sinew of his poisoned blue arm, slowly leeching away his strength and will to press on and fight.

But such defeat was not something the elven prince could just so easily stomach or accept. Forcing himself to ignore his exhaustion and pain, Legolas slowly pulled himself to his knees, then shakingly to his feet. He swayed for a moment, his knees almost buckling beneath him, but he had not come so far as to give up now. Turning to face the elven sorceress standing no more than half a dozen paces away from him, the warrior prince slowly reached into his tunic and withdrew the long, silvery-blue mass of a sheathed dagger from its folds.

Pulling the knife from its jeweled sheath, Legolas held the iridescent blade up for the witch to see. "You remember what this is, don't you, Eronel?" he called out over the pounding rain, "This is the dagger a dwarf once used to defeat you and seal you away in a dark stinking cave with. It is the blade that stopped your evil before, and what I will use once again to defeat you with."

Eronel's eyes flashed dangerously at the sight of the poisoned dagger in Legolas' hands, but she quickly schooled her anger and leveled a cool, condescending gaze at the elven prince. "You forget, elfling, that that is also the same dagger you managed to cut yourself on and doom yourself to a slow painful death with. Your friends may have bought you some extra time with that magic water, but that dagger's poison still flows through your veins, slowly draining you of life. You have no hope of winning."

"Like I said before, witch, it doesn't matter what happens to me anymore," Legolas said in a low, even voice, "Even if I die defeating you, I will at least die with the knowledge your evil can no longer hurt those left behind."

Eronel's lips curled up the sides of her face in an ugly, contemptuous snarl. "You are presumptuous for one whose life seeps from him as quickly as water through a sieve."

"No. I am dangerous," Legolas corrected, "For warriors such as I are those who have nothing to lose and everything to fight for." And giving no time for the witch to reply, he attacked.

The prince's attack at first startled the elven sorceress, his determination and rage lending his weary body unexpected speed and strength. But despite Legolas' abruptness and the burning emotions fueling his attack, Eronel was quick to recover and met the prince's attack with a shield of magic to thwart his attempts. For several minutes the two adversaries fought and circled – the power of magic set against the strength of steel. Ducking, then dodging, then moving in to strike, Legolas bore down on the witch with as much intensity as if fighting the very Dark Lord of Mordor himself. But soon, despite Legolas' determination and righteous anger, Eronel overcame him with a sudden attack and brutally batted the elven prince away from her with a powerful blast of magic from her hand.

Legolas was sent flying backwards onto the ground, his head hitting the hard, muddy ground with a dull, painful thwack. White flashed in his eyes as pain as intense as molten fire exploded through his beaten body. He tried to move and get back up, but he promptly collapsed back down onto his side where he lay, too weak to try and defend himself anymore. He lay there motionless on the rain drenched ground, unable to move. His entire body felt like one huge throbbing wound. The fiery pain of his poisoned arm now felt like acid coursing through his veins. He could barely even feel the dagger still clutched in his right hand anymore let alone muster the energy needed to once again rise and face the witch. Almost paralyzed by pain and exhaustion, the elven prince was only vaguely aware of the sorceress' dark presence slowly coming to stand over him.

"That was pathetically pathetic," he heard Eronel drawl, her mocking voice rising up over the sound of driving rain like poison on the wind, "For all that whole heroic talk you just gave about defeating me and ending my reign of evil, I would have thought you would have given me at least a little bit better of a fight than that." Legolas said nothing and only weakly glared up at her through the haze of anger and pain still clouding his fiery blue eyes.

Eronel let out a low, evil chuckle at the sight. "Ah, my little prince, it is so sad to have to end this all after all the fun we've had together, but I'm afraid this last little stunt of yours showing up here on the battlefield and ruining my plans has made me mad. I was going to let you just peacefully fade away into Mando's Halls under my spell, but now that you've gone and insisted on making yourself a nuisance, I'm going to make sure you die nice and slow..."

Raising her hand up over her head, Eronel summoned a great ball of magical energy. Despite Legolas' attempts to hide it, his eyes widened in fear as he stared up at his own looming death. The elven sorceress laughed with sadistic glee at the prince's obvious fear.

"Goodbye, little prince..." Eronel grinned down at the helpless warrior at her feet, "Give my regards to Mandos..." Then raising the glowing ball of energy up over her head, she prepared to deliver the final blow. Legolas closed his eyes and turned his face away, ready to receive the final strike. He was not going to let the witch have the satisfaction of seeing in his last few moments of life the repentant shine of tears in his eyes for his failure to once and for all put an end to Eronel and her evil ways.

But as he lay there waiting for the final stroke to fall, he suddenly heard a scream of pain ring out above him.

His eyes flying open at the sound, Legolas looked up to see Eronel staggering away from him with her left arm tightly cradled against her chest. He saw blood appear between her fingers clutching at the bleeding wound and blossom out across her rain soaked sleeve. She stared down at her bleeding arm for several long moments before looking back up at the elven prince with fiery rage and hatred in her eyes.

Legolas lay stunned, unable to understand what just happened. But then he suddenly realized that the witch was not actually staring at him. No, instead, Eronel's eyes seemed fixated on some point just above and behind him. Looking back over his shoulder, Legolas let out a small gasp at the sight of the one he saw.

"Gimli"

There, standing almost right over the downed prince stood Legolas' best friend, his mighty battle axe held up in front of his chest like the image of some fell and ancient god of retribution. A small line of red ran along the edge of the dwarf's mighty axe, attesting to his last minute intervention of saving the elven prince's life. Vengeful fire burned in his dark little eyes as he stared in Eronel's direction, as if wanting nothing more than to charge and part the witch's head from her body in one fell chop.

"Gimli..." Legolas once again whispered as he stared up at his friend with untold emotions shining in his depthless blue eyes.

The dwarf finally broke his gaze away from the elven sorceress at the soft calling of his name and looked back down at his wounded friend laying prone and helpless at his feet. For several long moments of eternity, the two just stared at each other, unable to find any words to say in the wake of the terrible ordeal they had both suffered to try and reach each other once again. Everything else around them seemed to melt away and disappear as they both stared into each other's eyes, lost in the fact they were once again reunited.

Gimli was the first to speak. "Legolas..." he choked, staring at the elf with watery brown eyes as he knelt down beside his friend and shakingly reached out to grasp one of the archer's hands in his own as if unable to believe the sight he saw without first touching the resurrected elf to confirm he truly existed. "Is it really you?"

Legolas' face broke into a wide, quivering smile at the dwarf's question, his own eyes suspiciously moist. "Yes. It's me."

"But... how?" Gimli whispered, his eyes still scanning the prince's body in disbelief, "You were dead. I saw you..."

"No. It was a trick by Eronel," Legolas said, shaking his head, "She wanted everyone to believe I was dead to instigate this war between our races."

"I still can't believe it's really you..." Gimli stammered, almost convulsively gripping Legolas' in his hand as if he was afraid Legolas would somehow disappear if he let the elf go, "All this time I thought you dead... and now–"

"Gimli, please, we do not have time. I came here to warn you," Legolas interrupted, desperately cutting their reunion short, "We have to stop Eronel. We cannot let her win. She will not stop until she is either defeated or all of Middle-earth lays under her control. We have to stop her."

Gimli's tearful face almost instantly grew serious again at his friend's words. For a moment, in his chaotic whirlwind of emotions at seeing Legolas alive again, he had almost totally forgotten about the one who had put his friend into such an unnatural, death-like sleep and now stood ready to kill everyone in her path to achieve her ultimate goal of world domination. "Don't worry, elf," he said, looking back into his friend's bright blue eyes, "I'm not going to let that witch get away with what she's done. She will taste the edge of my axe again before this day is done. We will stop her and put an end to her evil once and for all. You have my word on that..."

"That is what you think, dwarf," a low, poisonous voice suddenly spoke up half a dozen paces from the two friends, making them both quickly look back up at her, "Just because you managed to somehow sneak up on me and save your little friend does not mean you have any chance of winning. You and that elf have continually managed to somehow ruin my plans. I will not let you interfere again and stop me from taking what is rightfully mine. I will rule Middle-earth! And I am not going to let some pathetic little elfling and his pet dwarf stop me from doing so!"

Gimli literally seemed to bristle around the edges at the witch's words, and quickly leapt to his feet to once more face the elven sorceress. Carefully stepping over Legolas, he came to stand between his friend and the wretched looking witch, his axe once more held in front of his chest in an undeniably threatening way. "I swear, witch, if you try to come even one _step _closer to Legolas, I am going to cleave you in half from head to toe..."

The dwarf's words carried power and no small bit of warning in them as to the punishment he intended to deal out if Eronel did so chose to try and test his claim. But Eronel was too arrogant and self-confident to be intimidated, and laughed jeeringly at the stout little warrior's threat.

"Do you really think you can stop me?" she laughed, taking several steps closer to the downed elf and the dwarven warrior protectively standing over him, "Do you really think some little dwarf and half dead elf are going to stop me?" she crowed, "Really... you are more stupid than you look, dwarf, if you truly think so..."

"Believe me, witch, I intend to try my best..." Gimli growled. And much like Legolas had done before his unexpected arrival there on the field, Gimli leapt at the elven sorceress, his axe raised up over his shoulder to deliver a devastating blow.

Eronel quickly leapt out of the path of the dwarf's axe and turned to face him, a ball of glowing magical energy already hovering in her upturned palm. Throwing it at him, the elven sorceress stepped back several feet to gain more distance between herself and the enraged dwarf attacking her. Gimli managed to dodge the fiery attack and continued his press on the elven sorceress, roaring an ancient dwarven battle cry as he did so.

As Eronel and Gimli met head on in an almost titanic crash of power, Legolas looked out in horror. "Gimli, no!" he shouted. Pulling his weak and trembling limbs underneath him, the elven prince desperately struggled to push himself up and stand. He had to help Gimli! He did not know what he was getting himself into fighting the witch alone. Eronel was more powerful than her wretched, emaciated form gave her credit for. He had to help him.

Willing his exhausted, hurting body to obey, Legolas shakingly forced himself up onto his feet. Clutching the cursed poisoned dagger he still held tighter in his hand, the elven prince hurried for his friend and the evil elven sorceress. Explosions of Eronel's magic rocked the air almost as loud as the deafening thunder and lightening breaking loose overhead in the stormy purple-black sky. Rain lashed Legolas' face as he ran for Gimli and Eronel, pushing his weary body to hurry.

As Eronel brutally knocked Gimli back several feet away from her with a powerful blast of magic, Legolas finally reached the dueling pair and came to stand beside his dwarven companion. Gimli paused for a moment in his battle with Eronel to look at the elven prince suddenly standing there beside him in surprise. Legolas offered no explanation as to his sudden arrival, and only gave a small smile of greeting to the startled dwarf before once more turning his attention on the evil elven sorceress standing in front of them, his eyes narrowing to two dangerous slits and his hand reflexively gripping the grip of his poisoned dagger tighter. Gimli at first stared at Legolas for a long moment of silence before a small devilish grin slowly spread across his bearded face. With his friend close beside him, Gimli confidently turned back to face Eronel again who stood watching the elf and dwarf with guarded wariness.

_Aulë it's good to fight beside you once again... _Gimli could not help but feel his heart rejoice at the return of the elf's strong, familiar presence to his side. In all of the days following Legolas' supposed death, that had been the one thing Gimli was sure he would never be able to feel again – that sense of wholeness and confidence in the knowledge that his best friend and blood brother was there beside him, offering him his own strength and support.

Together, without any need for communication or words, the two simultaneously attacked, their synchronization and timing honed from years of fighting together in battle. They moved in perfect rhythm. As one attacked and quickly moved back out of the path of Eronel's counterattack, the other would slip in from the other side to attack.

Eronel screamed in rage as she tried to fend off the attacking pair. They were so perfectly matched – one making up for the other and balancing his weaknesses with his own strengths – that she almost felt as if she were really fighting one. Never before had she ever fought a warrior – or warriors – that kept her on the defensive like this. It was a disconcerting shift of power, and she did not like it.

"Damn you!!" she screamed as she sent a fiery mass of energy flying at Gimli. The dwarf managed to dodge the attack, but received a nasty burn across his arm as he did. But the wound did not deter him in the least, and seemed to actually feed his drive to defeat the elven witch. Legolas suddenly came at her from the left with the cursed dagger shining dangerously in his hand. Eronel deflected the slash aimed for her stomach with a shield of magical energy and tried to lash out and bat the elven prince away from her, but he had already shied away back out of her reach to allow Gimli room to make an attack from the other side.

Fending off the dwarf's attack, Eronel felt rage boil up inside her like an erupting volcano. This had gone far enough... Summoning a great aura of energy around herself, the witch waited until the elf and dwarf came close enough to try and attack her again before suddenly expending the great concentration of energy so that it exploded out from her like the blast of an exploding star.

Legolas and Gimli were taken by surprise by the sudden blast and both sent flying backwards several dozen feet from the elven sorceress. As Legolas hit the ground with a sickening crunch and a choked off scream of pain – his right arm snapping like dry kindling beneath him as his body fell atop it at an odd angle – the poisoned dagger went flying from his hand and landed several yards away from him in the rain-drenched grass.

Writhing in agony, Legolas lay in total pain, cradling his broken arm to his chest with his other poisoned blue appendage. If he thought his misery could get no worse, he had been sorely wrong. Unbidden tears of agony blurred his vision and threatened to slip down his ashen cheeks. But he refused to give into temptation and only weakly curled in around himself, desperately trying to fight the undescribable waves of pain that threatened to tear his consciousness away from him like a storm tears a ship from its mooring ropes.

Eronel laughed wickedly at the sight of the prince's poor, battered body curled up on itself in a ball on the cold, wet ground. "Ah, my poor little prince...," she said as she slowly began walking towards the elven prince, "I told you you should have just let yourself slip away under my spell. But you had to decide to bring more misery onto yourself by trying to come here and stop me... and now look where that decision's gotten you – nowhere but defeated and broken on the ground." As Eronel drew closer, Legolas desperately tried to pull himself back up off the ground to face her, but his efforts were all in vain and he weakly slumped back down onto the ground, his body too weak and exhausted for him to protect himself anymore. He could do nothing more than glare up at her with helpless, rage filled eyes.

"You poor poor thing..." Eronel mockingly crooned as she came to stand over the helpless archer, "Look at how much pain you're in... You know, so many people have called me cold and heartless over the years – and perhaps many of them were right – but believe me, prince, when I say I still have some small shred of mercy in me," she said as she slowly raised her hand up over her head and summoned a great ball of fiery energy, "And to show you I still possess mercy, I think I'm going to be nice and put you out of your misery for you..." Cackling loudly over the pounding rain and crashing thunder, the elven sorceress slowly raised the glowing ball of energy high up over the helpless form laying at her feet.

Several dozen feet away where he had been thrown back by Eronel's attack, Gimli watched in horror as the elven witch prepared to deliver the final deadly blow to his best friend. Pulling himself to his feet, he made to rush to his friend's aide. But as he bent down to retrieve his fallen axe, he saw out of the corner of his eye a pale, silvery-blue mass laying in the grass off to his side. It was Legolas' dagger – the cursed blade Gimli had given him as an innocent gift almost one week ago and had almost doomed Middle-earth to an all out war between Elves and Dwarves when Legolas had been thought dead from its poison. Glancing down at it and then back up at Eronel standing over the elven prince's body, Gimli hurriedly reached down and snatched it from the ground. Then with a tremendous battle cry, he charged the elven sorceress' turned back.

Eronel was just about to drop the deadly ball of energy on the helpless prince when she heard the dwarf's battle cry ring out behind her. Almost too late, she whirled around to see the enraged warrior running towards her, the cursed, ancient dagger held high in his hands. With a startled gasp, the elven witch leapt back from the dwarf's blade, her ball of energy immediately dissipating at her sudden loss of concentration. Before she could react in time to protect herself, Gimli was already atop her, and delivered a long, stinging cut across her arm.

With a howl of rage, Eronel stared down at her bleeding arm which now bore the marks of two separate cuts from the stout warrior's blade. Murderous fire burned in her eyes as she looked back up at Gimli with undeniable hatred. "You foul little creature..." she hissed, all thoughts of the injured elven prince now totally gone from her mind, "I will kill you for that!" Lunging at the dwarf, Eronel brutally sent him flying back through the air with a powerful blast of magic from her hand.

Gimli hit the ground hard and came to a stop only after rolling half a dozen feet from where he had initially landed. Groaning, he tried to pull himself to his feet, but Eronel was already on top of him. With a brutal kick to the ribs the witch sent him flying through the air again, her anger radiating off her in almost palpable waves of crackling energy as she followed after him each time he landed to deliver another blow.

"You know, I've always hated dwarves," she said as she once more batted Gimli to the ground with a powerful attack, "Foul, disgusting little creatures that do nothing but wallow in darkness and dirt..."

"Funny," Gimli mused as he struggled to his feet to face the elven witch again as she quickly strode forward to deliver him another blow, "That's the same description I would use for you..."

His joke, however, was not met with much enthusiasm, and Eronel brutally batted him aside like a rag doll for the comment. Gimli once more struggled to his feet, his notorious stubbornness for refusing to admit defeat once more earning its reputation. The poisoned dagger he had somehow managed to keep a hold of during his midair flights through the air came up to bear in front of his chest as the elven sorceress neared him again to bat his across the field. But Eronel was to have none of it and knocked the blade from Gimli's grasp before he could reach her to strike.

The blade went sailing through the air, leaving Gimli with nothing left to defend himself with as Eronel once more sent him crashing back to the ground with a well aimed attack. Neither the evil sorceress or dwarf saw the injured prince slowly drag himself up off the ground behind them and reach for fallen dagger that had landed only several feet away from where he lay...

Slowly coming to stand over the dwarf, Eronel said, "You know, it would seem almost fitting that I kill you here today, dwarf," she mused in a low, condescending way, "After all, it was your ancestor that trapped me in that dark, stinking cave over three thousand years ago."

"A fact I am very proud to say belongs to one of my bloodline..." Gimli replied, his eyes never leaving those of the elven sorceress.

Eronel's face contorted into a mask of contemptuous rage as she stared down at the belligerent dwarf. "Well, whatever the case, it really doesn't matter anymore. Because once I've said my goodbyes to you here, I intend to go back and finish the little prince off. It would be inhumane to leave such a pathetic little creature whimpering and crying in pain like that on the ground..."

"I swear, witch, if you go anywhere near him–"

"You'll do what?" Eronel laughed, cutting him off with an evil cackle. "You can't do anything to stop me," she crowed, slowly raising another ball of glowing white energy up over her head and the helpless dwarf at her feet, "I am invincible..."

But as Gimli watched the elven witch prepare to deliver the final killing blow, Eronel's face suddenly contorted in surprise and her body arched backwards away from him. A terrifying howl of pain flew from her lips as a soft, deadly voice spoke up behind her. "That's what you think you, Eronel..."

Sitting there in shock, Gimli looked up over the witch's shoulder to the see Legolas standing there behind the witch, the hilt of Eronel's cursed dagger protruding from her back where the blonde archer had savagely plunged it into her body with his unbroken, poisoned-blue arm.

"I will not let you hurt any more people I care about, Eronel..." he whispered over the witch's horrible screams, "This all ends now..." And with a brutal twist of his wrist, he retched the curse dagger back out of Eronel's back.

The witch gave a horrible gurgling scream, her whole body contorting in pain. An aura of blinding white light suddenly formed around her wretched body as she shrieked and howled in agony at her defeat. Like a glowing star, the light grew brighter until she was finally swallowed from sight by the blinding white curtain of light. Then with no other warning to those watching the fantastic display, the great ball of energy suddenly exploded.

In a great concussion wave, Eronel's dispersed magical energy rocketed out across the field in all directions, leveling everything in its path. Those warriors watching from the edges of the immense field were instantly thrown back by the huge blast as their horses reared and neighed in fright. Screams of terror rent the air as the entire world momentarily vanished from sight behind a wall of brilliant light.

A heavy stillness quickly descended upon the field as the blinding wave of light slowly faded from the air. A long, low roll of thunder sounded overhead in the dark grey sky as rain continued to softly fall down on the open field below. Nothing seemed to stir in the still aftermath of the intense explosion. Only the soft hiss of falling rain could be heard filling the empty void of silence.

Grunting softly under his breath, Gimli slowly pulled himself up to sit where he had been thrown back by the blast of the unexpected explosion. Several dwarven curses immediately followed as he gingerly shook his head and winced at the sharp, stabbing pain the movement sent shooting through his skull. His whole body hurt something awful and there was a soft buzzing in his ears that refused to go away. All in all, Gimli was sure he had had better days.

Ignoring the cold drops of water that continued to shower down on his aching body, Gimli dazedly looked around. From where he sat he could see those elves on the outskirts of the field also beginning to slowly pull themselves up off the ground and turn to stare in his direction near the center of the field. Slowly scanning the surrounding area, Gimli saw that Eronel was no longer anywhere to be seen. All that remained of the elven sorceress was a small patch of scorched ground several feet away from him where she had been standing when Legolas first suddenly attacked...

_Legolas!_

The name instantly sent a bolt of dread coursing through dwarf's heart as he quickly looked around him for his elven friend. "Legolas! Legolas!" he began calling, desperately pushing himself up to stand on unsteady legs, "Elf, where are you?!"

Frantically looking around him, Gimli was finally able to make out the form of a slender blonde figure laying limp and motionless face down on the muddy ground several yards away from him. Rushing towards it, Gimli quickly knelt down beside his friend's still body.

"Legolas? Legolas?! Answer me, elf!" he cried, rolling limp body over in his arms to gently cradle him against his chest. No kind of response came from the prince as his head lifelessly rolled back into the crook of Gimli's elbow and remained there, still and motionless. "Legolas? Please, Legolas, answer me," the dwarf softly pleaded, searching his friend's pale, sickly features for any sign of life. He hugged the limp form closer, but could feel none of the elf's once powerful warmth and strength. Only cold emptiness.

"Please..." he whispered in growing despair, "Please don't leave me again..."

But there still came no answer from the quiet elven prince.

Gimli sat there for a long moment of silence just watching the raindrops softly fall against the elf's still and peaceful face. Somehow it seemed so wrong to him to watch those tiny teardrops from heaven slowly puddle on the elf's translucent skin before running off in tiny little streams along the delicate curve of his forehead and cheeks. It was just so wrong... After all that had just happened, and the elf's miraculous return, it was just so wrong...

A hollow sob rent the air and it took Gimli a moment to realize that it had come from him. Another one quickly followed that and before he knew what was happening, Gimli felt his heart rip open and all his grief and anguish which he thought he had finally begun to exhaust come rushing back to the surface. Salty tears streamed down his cheeks to mingle with the icy rain soaking his face and beard. After all this time he thought he had had no tears left to shed for his beloved friend, but it appeared as though he had been wrong again.

Crushing the elven prince's lifeless body to him, Gimli let out a strangled, sobbing wail of despair. Then throwing his head back to the crying grey heavens above, he screamed out his misery in a loud, echoing roar of anguish that reverberated through the wet, chilly air even unto the farthest reaches of the wide grassy field.

But as his cry slowly faded from the misty air, the only thing to answer the anguished dwarf was the soft, silvery hiss of falling rain...

To Be Continued...

**Some Reviewer Responses**:

**Templa Otmena**: Thank you for that wonderful review! I'm glad that you're enjoying this fic along with my other ones. I hope this last chapter was something along the lines you were expecting. Was there enough elf-angst in it for you or should I put more in next time? I'm only planning on one more chapter for this story so my next update should be for "Writings" again. And then after that, its going to be "They Came" all the way. Thanks for reading!

**Arienwen**: LOL thanks for the review. Yes, I've come to the conclusion almost all my stories are angst based, but I just can't help it! Exhausting to write, you ask? Well... I guess. I mean dreaming up the plot line is a cinch (I don't know... angst just seems to come natural to me :P) but the actually writing part of it can get kind of grueling at times. I have a tendency to agonize over almost _every_ sentence because I want to get all the angsty goodness I can into each one! Thanks again for the review and hope you liked this last one!

**White Wolf 1**: She was abducted by aliens and is currently being held aboard a ship hovering somewhere over Antarctica... LOL just joking. No, it's me! I swear! LOL. I'm glad to see you liked the last chapter. I hope this update wasn't too long in coming for you. I do try to do my best writing while still dealing with school, work, and life in general, but sometimes it just doesn't work... I'm glad you saw my point with Thranduil last chapter. I can't help but see him as one of those fathers that are ubber protective of his children and when someone hurts one of his brood, its basically like declaring war on him himself. Hope you liked the new chapter and thanks for reading!

**Snow-Glory**: LOL I had to do the exact same thing when I came back from that long hiatus because it had been so long since I last worked on it. I hoped you liked Gimli's reactions. Somehow I think he stole this last chapter. No matter what I was writing I always wanted to gravitate back towards him.

**Lady Lenna**: Friends forever is right! lol I hoped you liked the last chapter and got enough Legolas/Gimli action to last you till next chapter.

**Firnsarnien**: What is it with no one remembering Eronel taking over Celion's body?!?! It was a pretty substantial part of chapter... erm... whatever it was. Oh well... I'm not mad at you or anything. It's just that I guess it was such a long time in between updates that people forgot... I know I myself had to go back at several different parts and reread them to get back into the feel of the story. Glad you seemed to like Thranduil. Like I explained to someone else, I just can't help but see him as the ubber protective father type.

**Gissela**: Um... I'm sorry. I try to update as fast as I can but sometimes real life gets in the way and foils my little plans. I know it takes me awhile in between updates but I'm trying to keep a steady balance between "They Came" and "Writings." No worries tho. I only plan on one more chapter for this, so will probably start working on that right away so I can officially turn all my fanfiction energy to "They Came" next. Hope you liked the last chapter!

**Chels**: Forget about it. I'm just glad you're still reading along and keeping up. Hope you liked this last chapter.

**SofiaB**: I hope this last chapter answered some of your questions. Legolas certainly was _not _fully recovered which was the assumed prognosis last chapter. Thanks for the review!

**SageWriting**: Thank you for that show of love for the story. Hope you liked this last chapter!

**messenger of the Elvenking:** I'm glad you like my Thranduil. After Legolas and Gimli, he's one of my favorite characters to write. I just love him when he's so cranky and stubborn but utterly devoted to his children... at least in the versions I write him and read.

Don't forget feedback and reviews are always appreciated no matter what you think or have to say (except for flames though...) and am always glad to see them filling my inbox. Thanks again for reading! Till next time!


	16. Forever Till the End of Time

Contrary to popular belief I'm not dead! Though it's been over two years in the making, here it finally is, the final chapter of "Writings on the Sword!" Yes, yes, I know I took my time getting it out, but I'm really proud of this and hope everyone likes it and feels it was well worth the wait. And thanks a bunch to everyone that reviewed and kept hassling me to get a new chapter out. I sometimes need a little push to get me back on track:P

Well, I hope everyone enjoys the chapter, and I'll see you down at the bottom!

* * *

A fine, gentle rain drizzled down on the elven city of Rivendell. Like a city set in the clouds, it seemed to float on a fine blanket of mist deep inside the great river valley surrounded by the towering grey bodies of the Misty Mountains. A great stillness seemed to hang over the quiet city, as if no one there dared speak or venture out into its deserted streets. Though war had been diverted and the evil elven sorceress Eronel defeated, there were no sounds of celebration in the peaceful elven city. No voices rang out through the chilly air to rejoice in the return of peace and tranquility to the elven realm of Imladris. Only empty silence except for the soft pattering hiss of rain. 

In the great halls of the Last Homely House, such stillness also pervaded. Nothing seemed to stir in its cavernous depths. If one would have wandered down the halls and streets of Lord Elrond's realm at that time without any knowledge of the recent events of the past week, they would have wondered at the disconcerting stillness in the air. What had happened to have caused this disturbing quiet? Had some terrible tragedy visited the house of the ancient elf lord? But if such a person really had existed, there would have been no one there for that person to ask, and so would have had to continue on their journey with no idea as to the events that had transpired to have dampened the spirits of everyone there in that once bright and lively realm.

And it was in one of the many rooms of Lord Elrond's house that the quiet stillness hung heavier than anywhere else.

Laying in repose on the only bed of the room rested a still blonde figure. A thick cream colored comforter lay pulled up to his chin and carefully tucked in around his body. No sign of life or movement could be detected from the motionless form. Thick blonde hair lay fanned out across the pillow beneath his golden head. Pale, ivory-white skin shined dimly in the weak grey light that filtered in through the bank of windows lining the far side of the room. Nothing but the soft patter of rain outside could be heard in the still quiet of the room.

But as the rain continued to softly drum against the windows and stream down the glass in tiny rivulets, the still blonde figure began to stir.

Issuing a soft moan, he rolled his face to the side and shifted slightly under his warm nest of blankets, signaling the beginnings of a return to consciousness. As he once more shifted beneath the blankets, a small grimace formed across his face, his forehead and brows furrowing together in discomfort. Even the smallest of movements seemed to awaken in him a deep, lingering ache that seemed to reach down into the very marrow of his bones. In his groggy, only half-aware state, he once more tried to shift but was instantly stilled as a small jolt of pain shot down the length of his right arm. Settling back into stillness, he let his head drowsily roll back into the comfortable divot of his pillow. Though the urge was strong to remain where he was and let himself drift back into sleep to rest his weary body, Legolas slowly blinked his heavy eyes open and into focus.

For several long moments of silence, the prince just lay there in a half-awakened daze, watching the rain softly patter against the windows on the far side of the room. Then, still somewhat half asleep, slowly glanced around him at the interior of the unfamiliar room in which he lay.

Looking around at the sparse but elegant decor he wondered how he had gotten there. For some reason he could not explain, he could not remember anything of the past few days. His mind felt sluggish and fuzzy like it was wreathed in some dense fog that refused to reveal any of its secrets to him.

But all worries of those unanswerable questions were instantly forgotten as his eyes finally finished their slow, cursory arch of the room and came to rest on a stout, bearded figure sitting slouched down in a chair close beside his bed, lightly dozing with his head rolled back against the back of the chair. Though slightly taken aback at having not noticed the person sitting there so close beside him before, Legolas nevertheless felt an intense wave of happiness, relief, and several other emotions he could not accurately describe or name wash over him at the sight of the one he saw.

"Gimli..." he whispered in a soft, raspy voice, the name unknowingly slipping from his lips as if he could not actually believe the sight of the one sitting there beside him.

At the sound of his name, the dwarf instantly woke with a start and turned to stare at the elf laying awake and staring back at him with sapphire blue eyes from the warm confines of his bed. "Legolas!" he exclaimed in surprise, "You're awake." Shaking, the dwarf leapt to his feet and leaned down over his friend. "You're awake..." he again whispered as if in disbelief. Then sharply turning to look back over his shoulder at the open door of the room, he excitedly yelled, "He's awake! He woke up! Come quick, he woke up!"

Before Legolas could understand what was going on, the tall, dark-haired form of the Lord of Imladris suddenly materialized in the doorway of the room and made his way over to Legolas' bed to lean down over the elven prince.

"Welcome back, Legolas," Elrond said with a smile as he gently laid a hand across the prince's brow as if feeling for a fever, "You had all of us very worried. We all feared you may have been too far gone for me to help when they first brought you back yesterday."

"What? I– I don't understand..." Legolas weakly stammered, feeling very dazed and confused by everything that was happening so fast after just waking up.

"It's alright, Legolas, don't worry," Elrond assured him with a tender, fatherly smile as he stood straight again, "I'm sure you don't remember much of what happened yesterday considering everything you went through. Just wait here while I go get the others. I'm sure they will all be very excited to know you are awake. I was barely able to keep them out of here this long to let you rest in peace. But I'm sure if you had slept any longer, they would have lost all sense of patience and just barged in here anyway to wait for you to wake." Here Elrond gave a meaningful glance over at Gimli standing close beside Legolas' bed, but elaborated no more on the matter. Then turning back towards the door, the ancient elf lord swept back out of the room in a blur of dark brown hair and flowing red robes.

Left alone by themselves once more, Legolas again looked up at the dwarf hovering over him. He expectantly stared up at Gimli as if silently asking him to explain what was going on, but the dwarf seemed too lost in his own thoughts to notice the elf's unspoken question. "Thank Aulë you're awake, elf," he said in a slightly trembling voice as he continued to stare down at the elven prince, "I was so worried there for a time... I almost thought we'd lost you again..."

"Gimli, what happened?" Legolas asked in growing confusion, "I don't understand what's going on." Though he desperately fought to try and remember what happened to have made Elrond and Gimli act so strangely towards him, the fog clouding his mind refused to lift.

Gimli finally seemed to come out of his trance, and looked down into the elf's shining blue eyes. "Don't you remember, Legolas?" he softly asked, "Don't you remember anything about that witch or that dagger I gave you?"

A rush of memories suddenly flooded Legolas' head at the dwarf's prompting. Memories of intense, fiery pain coursing up and down the entire length of his arm; waiting in hopeless uncertainty for Gandalf, Toreingal, and Gimli to return in time with a cure; looming darkness, inescapable doom, and a low poisonous voice speaking to him through his mind all returned to him in one massive surge of recollection. Gasping at the onslaught of unpleasant memories, the elven prince weakly struggled to push himself up and sit against thick pillows of the bed.

"Easy there, elf!" Gimli scolded, "You're in no condition to be moving around like that. Your arm's broken." But he nevertheless moved forward to carefully help his friend sit up and recline against the headboard of the bed. As he helped Legolas lean back, Gimli made a visibly effort not to jostle the elf's aforementioned arm which hung splinted and stabilized in a sling around his neck.

Finally situated – though still panting from the immense exertion of energy it had taken his unnaturally weary body to sit up – Legolas looked back up at his friend. "Eronel..." he whispered, slowly meeting the dwarf's solemn gaze, "Eronel and that dagger... The poison... She put a spell on me so that everyone thought I was dead. Elrond woke me and I went to stop her. We were fighting her together, but then–"

The dwarf grunted softly under his breath. "That sure was one hell of an entrance you made back there on that battlefield, elf. I thought for sure I had finally gone mad when I first saw you standing there." Pulling his chair even closer to Legolas' bedside, Gimli slowly sat back in it and stared at Legolas for a long moment of contemplative silence, his eyes growing suspiciously moist as he did so. "We all thought you were dead..." he finally went on to say in a soft, whispery tone, "For almost a whole week I thought you were gone. It was one of the longest weeks of my life. Even now I don't know how I survived it..." Unable to stop himself, the dwarf shakingly reached out and took Legolas' good hands into his own. Though it was obvious he fought to keep his emotions from getting the better of him, Gimli could not help a small sob from slipping past his defenses as he looked down at the cream colored blanket of Legolas' bed, unable to look at the elf without his breath hitching in his throat. "I don't think you'll ever truly know how much we missed you, elf," he said, forcing himself to look back up at his friend with slowly brimming eyes, "You've come to hold a greater place in my heart than I thought anyone ever could. I just thank Aulë and whatever other higher powers that be that you're back..."

Legolas sat there stunned by the emotions he heard in Gimli's voice and saw expressed in his eyes and ruddy face. Though he and Gimli had been friends now for several years, he had never seen the proud, noble dwarf ever express himself so openly. For several long moments of silence, Legolas just sat there trying to think of something to say in response to the heartfelt confession he just heard. But as he finally began to come out of his shock and open his mouth to say something, he suddenly heard coming from beyond the open door of the room the sound of many hurried footsteps.

Both looking up at the sound, Gimli and Legolas' quiet reunion was promptly ended as the room was suddenly filled with more than a dozen smiling, shouting, happy people, all of them clamoring to crowd in around Legolas' bed.

"Legolas! Legolas! You're awake!" the exuberant young face of Pippin exclaimed as he and three other overjoyed Hobbits rushed forward to crowd in around Legolas' bed and stand on tip-toes to look over the edge and see its incumbent elf. "We were all so worried about you! Elrond didn't know if he would be able to help you, but we never gave up hope you'd pull through."

"We didn't know what to think when we heard you were still alive," Sam piped up and added from between Frodo and Merry.

"That really was some kind of miracle," Aragorn agreed as he too rushed forward and came up beside Gimli to greet his friend with restrained tears shining in his pale grey eyes, "You don't know how startled we were when we first saw you." Behind him stood Arwen, her own eyes moist with joy at the sight of the elven prince sitting alive and awake against the headboard of the bed.

"Aye, coming back from the dead is no small feat," Elrohir chimed in with a nod of agreement from his brother as they came to stand at the foot of Legolas' bed, "There are few that can attest to achieving such a feat."

"Wouldn't one of those people in question be our own dear Glorfindel, brother?" Elladan asked, giving a mischievous glance to the side where said balrogs slayer stood close beside Elrond near the back of the group.

"My situation was completely different from Legolas'," the golden haired march warden replied rather stiffly, "And to once again reiterate what I know your father's already told you: Legolas was never truly dead. We only administered the drought of magical water Gandalf and Gimli brought back with them to wake him from Eronel's spell. He never actually passed over into Mandos' Halls."

"And a very lucky thing that was," the low, ancient voice of Gandalf said as he too came up to stand next to the confused prince's bedside and look down at him, "If Lady Arwen had found him any later, it is almost certain Legolas would have passed away. We can only thank the Valar she went to see him when she did and saw the poison still spreading."

This statement only seemed to spark another round of shouted agreements and exclamations of joy for Legolas' close call, and within seconds it suddenly felt as if everyone in the room was trying to talk at once. Slightly overwhelmed by the presence of all his friends crowded around him and simultaneously talking, Legolas could only sit there in a daze listening to their words of excitement and joy wash over him in a never ending tidal wave of emotions. Never had he ever felt so cared for in his life. He could think of nothing he could have ever done to have ever deserved such a display of emotions from his friends.

As if sensing his friend's confusion and doubt, Gimli gently patted the elf's arm and gave him a small, reassuring smile, as if trying to let him know that he truly did deserve their love and affection – that he was more important to them than what he gave himself credit for.

Legolas looked back at his friend and returned his smile. If there was one thing he could share with his friends' in their unending joy in that moment, it was his best friend's presence there by his side. For too long during those dark, uncertain days while he had lain there writhing in agony from the dark, evil poison flowing through his veins, he had yearned for the dwarf's return. He remembered later fighting against Eronel with Gimli close by his side – just like they used to before this whole nightmare had come to tear their lives apart. He remembered how he had felt as he fought alongside his friend – like he had somehow found his way back home or found some missing part of him. But then he remembered a bright, blinding flash of light, pain, and then... darkness. For some reason, one of the last things he remembered before succumbing to the darkness was the saddening certainty that that would be that last time he would ever have a chance to fight alongside his friend. That that was the end, and that even with his second chance of life, he still hadn't gotten a chance to say goodbye. And now to have Gimli sitting right there beside him again was almost too much for the elven prince to comprehend. It felt like he was in some sort of dream that he was afraid he would wake up from at any minute. He could only hope that if it really was a dream that he would never wake from it or have to see it end.

"Legolas?"

The soft, tentative voice immediately broke Legolas out of his thoughts and back into the present. Looking up past his ring of friends standing around his bed, he saw standing there in the doorway of his room his father, King Thranduil of Mirkwood. Close behind him, Legolas also saw his cousin, Toreingal, timidly standing behind his father, stretching his neck out to see up over Thranduil's shoulder into the crowded room.

A sudden hush fell over the room, everyone instantly quieting as they too turned to look at the Elvenking and his nephew standing there in the doorway.

"My son..." Thranduil once more whispered, his voice cracking somewhere deep inside his throat. The Elvenking seemed lost in his own little world, unaware of anyone else around him except his son sitting there against the headboard of the room's only bed. He stood there frozen, staring at his resurrected son with untold emotions swimming in his liquid blue eyes. "Legolas... They all told me you were dead..." Thranduil tearfully whispered as he took a small, shaking step into the room. Step by step, he slowly began to approach Legolas' bedside, his eyes never leaving those of his youngest son. "They all told me your were dead. I didn't know what to believe or think..."

As Thranduil began to draw closer, Gimli slowly rose from his chair beside Legolas' bed and quietly backed away from the elf, leaving Legolas alone to meet his father's approach. Startled by his friend's sudden desertion, Legolas frantically looked back at the dwarf, silently begging him to return. He did not want Gimli to leave. After everything they had both gone through and survived he did not want Gimli anywhere else but at his side.

But Gimli did not heed the elf's unspoken plea and continued to silently stand there several paces away from Legolas' bedside next to Aragorn, apprehensively watching as Thranduil slowly came up alongside Legolas' bed and sat down on its edge next to his son.

"Legolas," Thranduil softly called, reigning his youngest child attention back towards him. "Please look at me." Reaching out, he gently took Legolas' left hand into his own and held it as though it were a spun piece of glass.

Looking back up into his father's pale blue eyes, Legolas suddenly felt all his previously forgotten thoughts of reaching his father before Eronel could instigate any bloodshed between his father's forces, Imladris, and Dwarves come rushing back to him in a massive surge of panic. Frantically gripping Thranduil's hand in his own, Legolas desperately began to plead. "Please, father, you must not blame Gimli for what happened. He had nothing to do with my poisoning. He only gave the dagger to me as a gift. He didn't know there was anything foul on it. He would never do anything like that to harm me. Please, you can't blame him. He's my friend. What happened was an accident. You can't blame the dwarves or attack Imladris. They had nothing to do with what happened. They–"

"Hush, young one," Thranduil finally said, cutting off his son's rambling pleas with his soft but authoritative voice. Legolas obediently quieted but sat there in fearful anticipation of what his father's response would be. He had no idea what Thranduil would say. It was a well known fact that Thranduil harbored little love for those of other races; especially Dwarves. And after already being so ready to declare war and seek retribution from those he blamed for his son's supposed "death," Legolas couldn't even begin to wonder how his father would respond to his desperate pleas for peace.

As if reading the fear in his youngest child's eyes, Thranduil reached out and tenderly tucked an errant strand of disheveled blonde hair behind Legolas' ear. "Hush, young one," he once more soothed, holding Legolas' anxious, worried gaze with his own, "Have no fear. There is nothing to worry about. Mirkwood has ceased all war efforts against Imladris and its dwarven inhabitants."

"What?" Legolas stammered in shock, not quite sure to believe what he heard.

"After your unexpected arrival there on the battlefield and fight with Eronel, an immediate peace agreement was made," Thranduil explained, "Mirkwood has revoked its declaration of war on Imladris and relinquished all forms of hostility against it. After what I saw on that field after Eronel's defeat, I knew there had been a mistake. No murderer would ever risk his own life for another or show such emotions as those I saw displayed yesterday."

Legolas sat there stunned, wondering if perhaps he still wasn't in the grips of some terrible fever caused by Eronel's poison. Had he just heard right? Had war truly been diverted? But how? It almost seemed too much for his mind to comprehend.

It was then that Legolas suddenly realized he had no idea what happened that day after he and Gimli defeated Eronel, or how he had come to wake up there safe and sound in Rivendell with war successfully diverted.

Slowly looking around at all his friends and family gathered around his bed, Legolas' eyes finally came to rest on Gimli standing off to his side. Staring at his friend for a long minute of silence he finally asked in a soft voice of confusion, "What happened...?"

For their part, Legolas' friends seemed to instantly sober and become quiet at the memory of that fateful day. Legolas swore he saw Gimli's eyes become moist and begin to brim along the edges with unshed tears. But despite his pride, the dwarf's gaze remained steady and did not break from that of the confused elven prince.

"It was terrible..." Elrohir finally spoke up and said. "After Eronel disappeared in that great flash of light, none of us knew what had happened. It wasn't until we saw Gimli kneeling there in the middle of the field that we finally began to understand what happened..."

* * *

Rain continued to fall steadily from the steel grey sky overhead, showering the quiet field below in a never-ending stream of tears. Nothing seemed to stir in the still, aftermathic quiet that had come to hang so heavy in the air there in the middle of the field except for the soft hiss of falling rain. But even then the raindrops seemed to fall quietly, as though they did not wish to disturb the terrible scene they fell upon or the one whose anguished sobs mingled with their own mournful hiss. 

Another sobbing wail rent the air, and for a moment the figure of a stout dwarf swam into view through the misty veils of rain showering the quiet field. Kneeling there on the cold, muddy ground, Gimli clutched the still, lifeless body of his friend Legolas closer to his chest, almost crushing it to him in his despair to detect even the smallest sign of life in the elf's limp form. But he could feel nothing. Only emptiness. And cold...

Tears seemed to flow in unending streams down Gimli's face, soaking his beard and mingling with the cold rain lashing his face. His chest felt constricted and tight from all the anguish and grief he could not seem to expel from himself fast enough in the form of tears and gut-wretching sobs. All he could focus on was the still body in his arms – his friend and comrade who refused to answer any of his plaintive calls.

Holding Legolas close as though desperately trying to will his friend back by sheer force of will or stubborn denial, Gimli began to rock back and forth on his knees, still crushing the unresponsive body to his chest. But still no change to the elven prince, and his eyes remained tightly closed like those of a sleeping mortal – dark lashes pressed tightly down against pale white cheeks. Choking back another anguished sob, the dwarf gently tucked the elf's head up under his chin, weeping uncontrollably into the thick waves of golden hair as he continued to rock his friend's body back in forth in his arms to the rhythm of his unending grief.

So caught up in his misery, Gimli did not hear the sound of footsteps hurrying towards him until they were almost right there atop him – Aragorn, Gandalf, Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir, Toreingal and Thranduil all crowding in around him. Unintelligible rounds of exclamations and shouts filled the air, creating an overwhelming cacophony of noise and confusion. But still Gimli did not seem to focus on anyone else around him. It was only when Thranduil slowly dropped to his knees in front of him, staring at the still blonde figure cradled in his arms, that Gimli finally seemed to come out of his trance and focus on the others crowding in around him.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, slowly raising grief-filled eyes up to meet those of the stoic king, "I'm sorry... I– I tried to save him. I did. But I was too late. I'm sorry. Please forgive me... This is all my fault. I couldn't save him..." Dissolving into another round of anguished tears, the dwarf desperately clutched the still blonde form in his arms closer, weeping uncontrollably into his friend's thick hair.

Thranduil knelt there, stunned by the emotions he saw and heard coming from the anguished dwarf. Never before had he ever seen anyone so overwrought with grief or emotion – as if that one would surely die of grief if this sorrow could not somehow be lifted or reversed. It was a disturbing display that shook the startled king to the very core of his being and way of thinking. Never had Thranduil ever given much thought to the ways of mortal hearts and affection. They had always seemed so beneath him, unworthy of even giving a second thought to. For how could those whose lives were nothing but a fleeting note of sound in the grand scale of Iluvatar's Song be capable of experiencing such powerful emotions or forming such close bonds with another like Elves could? It was unthinkable. Yet here this dwarf knelt in the mud and rain, weeping for his fallen son like he would follow him to the Hall of Mandos if he did not wake and answer his pleading calls.

Shaking, Thranduil reached out for Legolas, his eyes silently pleading for his son's limp body.

Tears still streaming down his ruddy cheeks, Gimli reluctantly relinquished his death grip on the lifeless prince and slowly released him over into his father's waiting arms, all the while still murmuring soft words of repentance and grief. Thranduil said nothing, but gently took Legolas' limp body and cradled his youngest son against his chest. As Legolas finally left the safe enclosure of Gimli's arms, the dwarf finally seemed to lose his last little bit of control, and broke down into loud, heart-wrenching sobs of anguish. Aragorn immediately stepped forward to try and consol his grieving friend, but Gimli seemed too lost in sorrow to hear any of his friend's words.

Hugging his son's lifeless body close, Thranduil sat there stunned as he watched the dwarf he once blamed for his son's death crumble before his very eyes under the weight of grief. Struck speechless by the dwarf's show of emotions, Thranduil slowly turned his gaze back down onto his youngest child's upturned face.

For a long time Thranduil just knelt there, silently staring down at Legolas' face. After all these many long days believing his son dead, somehow holding him in his arms after just seeing him alive and well felt unreal. He felt torn and confused. A thousand different emotions whirled around inside the Elvenking's head. He had almost resigned himself to the fact that his son was dead. But then when he arrived to seek retribution for his son's death, who should appear there on the battlefield but Legolas himself! And now to actually lose him again... It all seemed so unfair and cruel. So unfair...

Thranduil tried to school his emotions as he continued to stare down at Legolas' face – wanting to memorize every minute detail of his son's pale, delicate features – but he could not seem to keep his vision from blurring from the flood of tears that sprung up to sting the corner of his eyes.

Shakingly he reached out to brush back several strands of rain soaked hair from his son's peaceful face. And as he did so it was like some dam finally broke somewhere deep inside the stoic king.

Unable to keep his long restrained tears of grief and pain back any longer, Thranduil felt his throat constrict and a hollow sob slip past his lips. Like a tidal wave of poison, all his old grief and anguish came rushing back to him. Succumbing to despair, the anguished father leaned down over his son's still form and desperately clutched Legolas to him, rocking back and forth on his heels as though trying to comfort a crying child – or perhaps more accurately himself...

Somewhere through his grief induced haze of tears Thranduil thought he felt his nephew, Toreingal, somewhere close beside him, trying to offer comfort. But in all honesty, Thranduil wouldn't have cared if Elbereth herself had descended from Taniquetil at that moment to come and comfort him in his grief. All he could think about and feel was the weight of his son's limp body in his arms, his head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, and the cold emptiness he felt where such life and warmth once resided.

Choking back his tears, the Elvenking gently pulled his son even closer, tucking his head up under his chin like he used to do when Legolas had been nothing but a little elfling in his lap. It was too much to bear. He didn't know how he was going to go on. The gaping hole in his heart that had been there ever since he first received word of Legolas' first supposed death suddenly seemed to rip open and swell until Thranduil felt like he was being swallowed alive by some bottomless pit of darkness. Nothing around him seemed to matter anymore. All he could focus on was the still, limp form in his arms, and the overwhelming emptiness and grief in his heart.

Tears streaming down his face with no pride or care to those standing around him, Thranduil buried his face into Legolas' hair and held his son close, wanting nothing more than die than have to bear the loss of one of his children. It was so unfair and wrong. No parent should ever have to bury their child. It was one of Mando's cruelest works...

But as Thranduil sat there on the cold, muddy ground hugging his son close and weeping for the injustice of his loss, he suddenly felt a soft, almost imperceptible thump against his chest where Legolas's chest was firmly pressed against his own. A soft gasp flew from his lips at the brief, fluttering sensation, and his eyes sprang open wide. His tears instantly forgotten and his sobbing stilled, the Elvenking clutched the still body to him ever closer, almost crushing Legolas to him as he waited in breathless anticipation for another sign of what he hoped was not some cruel trick of his grief-stricken mind.

Time seemed to stop and everything around him fade away as Thranduil knelt there with batted breath. Blood pounded in his ears like thunder as he waited in painful suspense. His heart pounded so hard against his ribs it seemed to want to leap out of his chest. But he did not move or dare draw breath for fear of missing even the smallest conformation that what he thought he just felt was real.

Time ticked slowly by.

And then, just when Thranduil was about to give up all hope... there! The soft flutter of another heartbeat against his own! It was faint and weak, but it was there!

Almost leaping to his feet at the sensation, Thranduil gasped so loudly all those standing around him immediately looked down at him in surprise. "A healer! Quickly, someone call for a healer!" he frantically shouted, hugging Legolas close to him disbelief, "He still lives! Someone call a healer!"

Aragorn swiftly knelt next to Legolas and pressed two forefingers to the elven prince's neck. He stayed like that for several long moments of breathless eternity until he suddenly gave a startled gasp and retched his hand back in surprise. "He speaks truly!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief, "Legolas still lives, though barely! We must get him back to Rivendell as fast as possible! He is in desperate need of Elrond's care!"

Gasps swiftly followed Aragorn's proclamation, and before anything else could be said, everyone erupted into action. Barely wasting a moment, Thranduil scooped his son's limp body up into his arms like he weighed nothing at all and raced in the direction of his waiting horse. Toreingal followed close behind, and took Legolas into his arms as Thranduil swung up onto his horse before then swiftly handing his injured cousin back up to him.

"Show me towards Rivendell!" Thranduil called out over the falling rain to Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel who were also in the process of swinging up onto their own horses' backs. In front of Thranduil, sitting slouched forward in his seat, the Elvenking tightly clasped Legolas' limp form to him with a strong arm across the younger elf's chest.

"This way!" Elladan shouted, turning his horse towards the line of Imladris warriors on the western side of the field. Thranduil gave no audible answer, but immediately spurred his horse after Elrond's oldest son. It suddenly seemed as though in their haste to aid the elven prince, all past grievances and feuds had been set aside and forgotten – that there were no longer any sides or enemies, only those working together to save the life of a precious friend.

Still kneeling on the ground in shock from Thranduil's declaration that Legolas still lived, Gimli could only stare after the Elvenking as he and his nephew sped after Glorfindel and the twins, making straight for Rivendell with Legolas protectively held in Thranduil's arms. Drying tear tracks streaked the emotionally wrung dwarf's face as he watched them disappear into the surrounding forest of the field, his mind a jumbled mass of confusion and conflicting emotions.

Had he really just heard right? Was Legolas truly still alive? No matter how much those wild thoughts swirled around in his head, he could not seem to make them actually register.

"Come, Gimli," he suddenly heard Aragorn say as the man came up beside him and lightly touched him on the shoulder, "We should go. Legolas needs you."

This seemed to finally bring Gimli back to his senses, for he quickly wiped the back of one hand across his wet, puffy eyes and leapt back up onto his feet. Then grabbing his discarded axe up off the ground, he hurriedly took off in the direction of Aragorn and Gandalf's waiting horses without waiting for his friend.

"What are you waiting for?" he impatiently shouted back over his shoulder as he finally reached Gandalf already sitting astride Shadowfax. "The elves are getting away! We have to catch up!"

Gandalf shared an amused glance with Aragorn as the man obediently leapt up onto his horse and offered a hand down to the impatient dwarf. With Gimli then safely seated behind Aragorn, the three took off at a full gallop after the departing group of elves and their resurrected friend.

* * *

"...and then we brought you back here to Rivendell," Elrohir concluded to the nods of everyone else there. 

Legolas sat there for a moment of silence, stunned by all he had just heard. "So then it's finally over?" he asked.

"Yes," Thranduil nodded, still tightly holding his son's hand in his own as if afraid to let him go, "It's over."

As if still troubled by something though, Legolas gently pulled his left hand back out of his father's grasp and stared down at it. "I don't understand though...," he said, slowly flexing his now normal looking hand open and close several times, "I could still feel the poison in my arm spreading while I was fighting Eronel. She was right when she said the magic water didn't cure me. It only broke her spell over me. I could still feel myself dying as I fought her..." He slowly looked back up at his friends crowding in around him. "How did I survive?"

"That is a very good question..." Elrond replied, working his way through the crowd so he could stand next to Legolas' bed and lean down over his young charge. He gently took Legolas' left arm and turned it over in his hands. The elf's veins and skin still had a slightly bluish tint to them, but the coloring was fading so fast Elrond was sure Legolas' arm would look completely normal by lunchtime at this rate. "Ever since your father showed up on my doorstep yesterday holding you in his arms, you have made a remarkable recovery," the ancient elf lord said, still turning Legolas' arm over back and forth in his hands, "Your arm is all but completely healed of poison now. It is almost like it suddenly disappeared from your system." He finally released Legolas' arm and leaned back to meet the prince's eyes. "It is truly a miracle..."

Legolas slowly pulled his arm back and stared down at it with a mixture of amazement and awe. "It doesn't even hurt anymore..." he whispered. "It's almost like the poison was never even there..."

"Could it be that since Eronel was finally defeated that Legolas was cured?" Arwen ventured to speculate.

"That is possible," Elrond nodded, "After all it was from her the poison originated. And from what I was told, the dagger was also destroyed in the explosion after Legolas defeated her. Perhaps since one or both of the elements of the poison's origin were destroyed, the poison was finally nullified."

"Then it would seem we all owe a great deal of thanks to our dear friend Gimli," Gandalf noted with a tone of pride in his wise old voice, "For without his brave, if not somewhat hasty bid at trying to save Legolas by freeing Eronel from her cave, it is almost certain Legolas would have died–"

"–Because the magic water we got from her cave would not have been enough to defeat the poison..." Toreingal then took over and supplemented as the pieces began to fall together in his head, "If she had still been trapped there, we would have never been able to get back there in time before Legolas succumbed to the poison..." A hushed silence descended upon the room as those ominous words slowly worked their way down into everyone's heads as to how close of a call it had actually been for the young prince.

Legolas was the first to break out of his quiet contemplation, and slowly looked back up at his bearded friend who stood off to the side of his bed looking decidedly humbled and red in the face by Gandalf's comment. Legolas smiled softly to himself at the sight and mentally stashed that image of the dwarf's uncharacteristic blush away for future use in one of their verbal sparring matches. "It seems then I truly do owe you my thanks and gratitude, Master Dwarf," he said, making Gimli look back up at him and meet his eyes, "For without your help I would most assuredly be dead. I owe you my life. Thank you."

"You shouldn't say that, elf," he said, shaking his head vehemently, "I wasn't the one who showed up on that battlefield at the last minute and stopped the battle, or finished that witch off once and for all."

"But I had your help in fighting Eronel," Legolas said, "Without you she probably would have killed me before I ever even got the chance to deliver a single blow."

"But it was my fault you ever had to fight her in the first place," Gimli protested bitterly, "If I hadn't given you that dagger none of this would have ever happened. It was my fault you almost died, and why war almost broke out between our races, and–"

"Gimli!" Legolas exclaimed, cutting his friend off sharply, "It was no one's fault. You had no way of knowing what would happen when you gave me that dagger, so I don't want to ever hear you blaming yourself like this again!" Gimli looked ready to protest this, but Legolas quickly intercepted him. "No! I'm warning you, Gimli. If I ever hear you blaming yourself for what happened again I swear I'm going to cut that beard of yours off while you're asleep."

"You do, elf, and I'll cut off all your braids," the dwarf growled.

Legolas smiled. After all that had happened it felt so good to smile and feel lighthearted again. It suddenly seemed as though everyone else in the room had disappeared and it was only the two of them, bantering and threatening each other just like old times. Quieting, the elven prince leaned back against the headboard of the bed and stared back at his friend for several moments of quiet reflection. "I really do thank you, Gimli..." he said, his eyes softly holding those of his friend.

Gimli smiled and bashfully looked down at the floor. Stepping back up next to Legolas' bedside, he reached out and gently patted the elven prince's forearm. "I'm just glad you're back, elf," he said, slowly looking back up into Legolas' eyes with a soft smile pulling at his lips.

Legolas smiled back and reached up to gently cover the dwarf's hand with his own. "So am I, Gimli... So am I..."

* * *

The halls and corridors of the Last Homely House rung gaily with the sounds of voices and laughter. In the great Hall of Fire, music could be heard playing. The voices of minstrels and singers mingled with the sweet notes of flutes and harps that filled the air, setting the background noise for the crowded Hall's many merrymakers. 

Long tables lined the room, ladened with plates of meats, breads, and cheeses. Countless pitchers of wine and ale also stood amongst the table's wide assortment of foods, continually kept full by Lord Elrond's staff of vigilant servants. No where was there an unhappy face or empty belly.

Outside, a light drizzle still showered the Hidden Valley as the last remaining remnant of turbulent storm that had passed over the elven city several days before. But the rain did nothing to dampen the moods of those feasting inside Lord Elrond's halls. No, in fact, it seemed to heighten them. For the rain that showered the eves and awnings of Lord Elrond's home was fresh and cool, portraying not sadness or grief, but rather the first signs of Spring – the seasonal time of rebirth and new hope.

For hope was what all those there now had.

Sitting together in various grouping throughout the great hall laughed and socialized those of all different races and realms – Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits and Men, Mirkwood and Imladris, Sindar and Noldor. All of them sat together, feasting like old friends. No where did the distinction of one's race or homeland seem to play a part in how they interacted with one another. On one side of the hall sat a small contingent of Imladris and Mirkwood warriors, laughing heartily at some joke told by one of the group's elves. At another table sat a host of Elves next to a group of Dwarves. But neither side threw suspicious or distrustful glances at one another. No, in fact, they seemed to actually be enjoying the company of each other, listening to some exciting tale of war or adventure that had listeners from both races eagarly leaning in to hear more.

It was a grand feast. Even larger and more festive than the first one Elrond had tried to host over a week before. The music seemed somehow louder, the singing more sonorous. The laughter and talk of the great hall more infectious and heartfelt. For unlike before at Lord Elrond's first feast, there was much more to celebrate and rejoice in: the return of peace, the reaffirmation of old and forgotten alliances, the safe return of loved ones and friends, and the opportunity to make new ones.

It was truly a time to celebrate and rejoice.

And nowhere were those feelings more keenly felt than by two oddly paired figures sitting together in one of the halls quieter corners, away from the main hub of people.

"Well, elf, it looks like everything's back to normal again just like it was before that whole fiasco you started last week."

"If memory serves me right, Master Dwarf, I can safely say you were the one to blame for that 'whole fiasco,' as you call it, by giving me that poisoned dagger in the first place."

"I didn't know it was poisoned," the elf's companion retorted with a grunt as he took a quick swig from his tankard of ale. "If anything, I say you owe me. That dagger was a valuable family heirloom I decided to give you as a gift out of the goodness of my own heart. And what did you go and do with it? You went and got it destroyed killing some evil witch. I think you own me some kind of apology for that."

"Gimli, I will give you your apology and any small amount of treasure you desire as long as you promise to never give me another gift as long as you live," Legolas replied, barely hiding the seriousness of remark behind a thin veil of sarcasm.

Gimli gave a small chuckle and set his tankard of ale back down on the table in front of him. "Very well, elf," he agreed, "Though it wasn't like I was ever going to give you another present again anyway." Legolas rolled his eyes at this but Gimli went on unperturbed as if he never even saw it. "Plus I don't think I need any of your treasure. I think your father's already taken the initiative of trying to bribe me into never giving you another gift again himself."

"What do you mean?" Legolas asked.

Gimli leisurely took another sip of his drink before answering. "This morning I woke up to a messenger knocking at my door who then hands me a small chest of gold coins and jewels saying it was from Thranduil with his regards. Needless to say, I was rather taken aback and didn't know quite what to say..."

Legolas sat for a moment of silence quietly digesting this before finally breaking out into stunned laughter. "I never thought I would see the day..." he chuckled to himself. When Gimli looked at him inquisitively, Legolas elaborated saying, "I don't think my father was trying to bribe you more than actually trying to apologize and possibly thank you for helping save my life. You should take this as an honor. My father has never been an elf known to apologize or thank anyone he is otherwise not deeply indebted to."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me..." Gimli muttered to himself under his breath. "Well, if what you say is true, and from what I know of him myself, then I really do feel honored. For I doubt any other dwarf before me has ever received such a peace offering like that from Thranduil before."

Legolas chuckled softly under his breath. "Unfortunately I think you're right," he agreed with a wry smile. Leaning back in his chair, the elf reached out for his drink on the table and took several appreciative sips of the strong Dorwinian wine he was drinking. But for as simple and innocent an action that was, it immediately arrested the dwarf's attention. For Legolas had not done so with his usual right hand, but rather with his non-dominant left. His broken arm still hung down by his chest in a cloth sling.

"So how's the arm?" Gimli casually asked as Legolas replaced his glass on the table and leaned back in his chair.

"Fine. Lord Elrond said it should be fully healed within the next week or so," Legolas replied, flexing his right hand open and closed several times as if to test out its progress thus far.

Gimli nodded thoughtfully. "You were lucky to have made it out of that fight with only a broken arm," he noted with a small grunt as if the mere mention of the elven sorceress left a bad taste in his mouth, "Because I can't really say as much for that poor warrioress you shot down."

Legolas winced slightly at the mention of his father's commander who he had shot with an arrow several days before when he had arrived on the battlefield, still dying of poison, to try and stop the sorceress Eronel from instigating war between his father, the Dwarves, and Imladris. "I felt terrible shooting Celion, but I could feel Eronel's presence there controlling her. I had to stop her. The only thing I could do was aim for a non-fatal shot."

"Thank Aulë for her sake then you were still able to shoot straight," Gimli noted with a sarcastic laugh.

Legolas shared a chuckle with his friend, and almost as a subconscious act, scanned the surrounding hall for the warrioress in question. He easily spotted Celion several tables away, her blonde hair standing out amongst the small group of dark-haired Imladris elves she was sitting with. As if feeling the prince's eyes upon her, Celion turned in her seat and meet Legolas' gaze. They remained like that for several heartbeats of silence before the female warrior finally gave a soft, understanding smile and turned back around in her seat to listen back in on the conversation going on around her. Smiling to himself, Legolas turned back to his own companion and took another sip of wine.

After regaining enough strength the day after his fight with Eronel and waking back up in Rivendell, Legolas had gone to visit his fellow warrior who he had shot down the day before. When he had reached the Halls of Healing he had found Celion already awake and sitting up in bed, asking her assigned healers when she could expect to be released. It had been an awkward meeting at first between prince and warrioress, but after several minutes they gradually began to feel more at ease with each other's presence. Legolas had at first tried to apologize for the injury the warrrioress had suffered because of him, but Celion held no grudge against him for his actions and refused to listen to any of the prince's apologies, saying he had done what he needed to do, and that if their roles had been reversed, she would have done the same thing. Both seemed to find a fellow comrade in the other because of their shared experiences with the power of Eronel's dark magic, and parted with a feeling of understanding.

"I think she likes you," Gimli's voice suddenly broke Legolas out of his thoughts.

"What?" the elf spat incredulously.

"I think she likes you," the dwarf repeated with teasing smile, "And I think you like her too. I saw the way you two were just staring at each other."

"And I think you're delusional," Legolas retorted, "There is nothing between Celion and I except the bond of brotherhood. We are fellow warriors; nothing more. If anything, she was probably looking to make sure I wasn't aiming another arrow at her back."

Gimli laughed uproariously at this, and clapped the elf on the back with a good-natured slap. "Whatever you say, elf, just make sure you invite me to the wedding," he chuckled.

Legolas blushed furiously at this and speared his companion with a irritated glare. But then, as if thinking something, broke into an evil grin. "And what about the fair lady Rín I remember meeting in Erebor the last time we visited each others homelands?"

Gimli's laughter instantly stopped. "What about her?" he demanded, suspiciously eyeing the elven prince.

"It is just that I remember how she'd always stare at you from across the room, batting her eyes and twirling a lock of her beard around her little finger every time you seemed to look her way. With all this talk of marriage, I cannot help but think what beautiful, hairy children you two would have together..."

Sputtering and choking on the mouthful of ale he had just been in the process of swallowing, Gimli slammed his tankard back down on the table and glared at his now laughing friend in scandalized outrage. When Legolas showed no sign of repentance for his jest (and in fact laughed even harder under Gimli's baleful glare), the dwarf angrily leaned back in his seat and began muttering sourly under his breath about "annoying elves" and several other remarks Legolas couldn't hear but was sure contained a few words that would not have been suitable for polite conversation.

As Legolas finally began to regain some of his composure, and dashed several tears of laughter from his eyes, he turned once more to regard his now sulking friend. "Ah, Master Dwarf, do try and be more cheerful. After all, today is a celebration. I would hate to have to write to your fair lady in Erebor, and tell her of your despondent state. Perhaps though if I did, she might know of some way to remedy you of this foul mood..." Legolas thought he heard a growl rumble somewhere deep inside his companion's throat, and laughed out merrily.

"Supposedly dead, then alive again; not even a fake death is enough to keep you out of my hair," Gimli grumbled under his breath.

"Aye, Master Dwarf," Legolas chuckled, "I am afraid you are doomed to suffer my presence at least a little while longer..."

His eyes softening a bit, Gimli reached for his drink again and took a slow sip of it. "I suppose I can live with that..." he said.

As the two continued sipping their drinks and taking in the entertainment of the surrounding hall, a sudden presence next to Gimli's side made the dwarf give pause and look up from his drink. There, standing only several feet away from Legolas and Gimli, stood the Elvenking of Mirkwood's nephew and Legolas' cousin, Toreingal.

The blonde woodland elf stood proud and tall, his face an unreadable mask as he cooly met Gimli's gaze and held it with his own. For a long moment of time, nothing passed between the two and silence reigned. Legolas tensed, unable to tell what kind of exchange might be about to take place between his best friend and cousin.

"Master Dwarf," Toreingal finally broke the tension that had been steadily building, and dipped his head low to the stout warrior. "Cousin," he then greeted Legolas with a similar bow. The two mirrored his actions and waited – a little bewildered by the formality of Toreingal's tone and actions – for the elf to speak.

"I know we did not come to know each other on the best of terms," Toreingal started, instantly focusing all his attention back on Gimli. "From the first moment I met you, I regarded you as an adversary. For that I am sorry." Here he gave another graceful dip of the head to the seated dwarf. "Despite my unwarranted hostility towards you, over the past week you have proven yourself many times over a friend of the royal family of Mirkwood and of all Elf kind. I am forever in your debt for helping save my cousin's life. I will never forget what you did for him. I was wrong in my assumptions of Dwarves and hope that someday you might forgive me for my unwarranted prejudices. For I have come to see why you hold such a high place of regard in my cousin's eyes, and would like to formally acknowledge his claim on you as 'Elf-friend.' For that is what I now also proclaim you as." Thus spoken, Toreingal made a tight fist over his heart and bowed low to the wide-eyed dwarf before him.

Stunned into near speechlessness by the elf's speech, Gimli stared at Toreingal for a long moment as if wondering if he had just hallucinated the whole thing. Quickly regaining his composure though, Gimli nodded his head in acceptance of the elf's words. "I thank you," he said, meeting the elf's eyes again as Toreingal straightened from his bow, "But I hold you to no debt or obligation. What I did was nothing more than what Legolas would have done for me."

Toreingal smiled softly and once more bowed his head to the flustered dwarf. "I know that. And that is why I honor you all the more. You have my cousin's love, and thus you have mine. May you enjoy the rest of the feast, Elvellon, and may we meet again someday soon." His mission thus completed, Toreingal turned with only a parting smile to Legolas and disappeared into the pressing crowd of guests and merrymakers filling the hall.

Gimli stared after the departing elf for a long, stunned moment of silence.

"I just ever so love being talked about as if I'm not even here," Legolas' voice suddenly broke Gimli from his thoughts, "Why I'm sure my cousin and you could have gone on for hours like that if you really wanted to."

"Aw, stop your griping, elf," Gimli shot back, still staring in the direction Toreingal had gone.

Legolas chuckled softly to himself. "I guess that's one more elf down and only several thousand more to go until you are officially accepted by all my kind."

Gimli half laughed and groaned at the notion. "It took me six months before I could stand to be alone in your presence for more than a few minutes, a declaration of war on my head before your father gave up the notion of decapitating me, and several very long and harrowing days alone with your cousin in the wilderness before he deemed me worthy enough not to sneer at whenever he happened to look upon me. I just don't think I have enough time or energy to win over any more of your race."

"You won the Lady Galadriel's favor within mere minutes. Surely that should count for something," Legolas said, smiling as he saw his friend's eyes grow distant and dreamy at the Lady's mention.

"She was special," Gimli replied with barely concealed wistfulness tainting his voice, "I doubt I will ever meet another Elf quite like her again."

His eyes shining brightly with some unknown secret, Legolas smiled softly to himself. "Perhaps you will have chance to see her again some day..."

"I doubt that. I heard tell she plans to sail into the West sometime soon. I doubt I will ever be able to gaze upon her beauty again." As he said this Gimli seemed to grow more quiet and sullen in mood.

Sensing his friend's shift of mood, Legolas smiled knowingly and gave him a soft nudge in the side with his elbow. "Come now, Master Dwarf. Surely you would not prefer the Lady Galadriel's presence over mine now, would you?"

"Any day of the week," the dwarf returned with a wry grin.

Making a show of looking insulted, Legolas turned his nose up at his friend and preceded to make as if he were getting out of his seat to leave. Laughing at his friend's actions, Gimli grabbed Legolas' arm and pulled him back down into his seat.

"Aw, sit down, elf. I don't need you running off to go tell your father or cousin that I insulted you; they'd both come after me with swords drawn."

Legolas' laughter rang out like wind chimes over the background murmur of the surrounding hall. "Spoken truly! As annoying as you can be at times, I don't want to see you run out of Lord Elrond's halls with my father and cousin following in hot pursuit. That would not look good on our races' new peace alliance."

"No, I don't think that would," Gimli agreed with a slight wince at the mental image generated from the thought of such a scene actually happening.

"So it would seem everything is back to normal then," Legolas noted, taking another sip of his drink.

"So it would," Gimli agreed, nodding his head thoughtfully.

"I'm just glad everything worked out in the end."

"Me too more than you'll ever know." Raising his drink to his mouth, the dwarf upended his tankard and finished off the last of the mug's contents in one massive gulp.

Glancing aside at his companion out of the corner of his eye, Legolas felt an almost predatory grin spread across his face.

"Prey tell, Master Dwarf, how many of those have you had thus far today?"

Gimli looked down and seemed to contemplate his empty mug for a long moment of silence. "Two or three. Why?"

Legolas could not help his evil grin from spreading. "Well, it's just that the feast has barely even begun and already you seem to be showing signs of intoxication, while I on the other hand have already had several glasses of wine and still am feeling nothing..."

Legolas knew he was baiting his friend, but the dwarf's expression of bristled outrage quickly silenced any twinge of conscience Legolas might have had at that moment.

"Signs of intoxication!" the dwarf sputtered near incoherently, "That's it, elf. Grab a mug. We're going to finish this once and for all. Last one standing wins! And no cheating this time! Don't think I don't know what you did in Meduseld after the Battle of Helms Deep!"

"Whatever you say, Gimli," Legolas replied, happily grabbing himself an empty mug from a nearby table and several pitchers of ale too.

Settling down into their seats and raising their first tankard of ale up, Legolas softly tapped his mug against Gimli's. "To Friendship and Peace," he toasted, "May the best Elf win."

"Or Dwarf."

"Whatever notion you chose to delude yourself with, my friend. See you at the bottom."

Then clinking their mugs together one last time, the two threw back their heads and drained their glasses, drinking to Peace, Friendship, and Brotherhood. All of which they eagerly toasted to again and again until late that night when the moon hung high in the sky and victory was finally decided. But there were no losers in this particular game. For even as the victor helped his unsteady companion navigate the darkened hallways of Lord Elrond's house back to his assigned guestroom, the two walked side by side, their voices raised together in a drunken round of song – one light and melodious and the other deep and baritone – both perfectly harmonized and timed with the other. And as their voice slowly faded away into the night, the stars seemed to shine a little brighter, for all was right in the world once more and everything restored back to its proper place.

The End

* * *

Yeah! It's done! Did you like it? Hate it? Tell me tell me tell me! 

I hope everyone that's seen the extended version of "Return of the King" caught on to my little nod to what is now infamously know as "the drinking scene" here at the end of the chapter. Absolutely hilarious... If you've seen it than you know who ended up winning my little rematch.

Well, I hope everyone enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it, because it's been an absolute blast. I hope you'll go and check out my other LOTR fics now. I plan on starting back up on "They Came Upon a Midnight Clear" soon, so keep a lookout for an update from that. Also, If you've happened to read my other fic "the Touch of Sight" I've just gone through a major revision of it, and revised it back to PG-13, so hopefully you'll give that a look.

Well, till next we meet again in another update,

I'm LAXgirl,  
signing out


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